


WILDFLOWER

by NineMagicks



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Alternate Universe - Beauty and the Beast, Antlers, Beauty and the Beast Elements, Books, Candles, Curses, Fairy Tales, Flowers, Français | French, Halloween, M/M, Magic, Magic Mirrors, Monsters, POV Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, References to Shakespeare, Strangers to Lovers, Vampires, a saint of a bookseller, a tired protagonist, an impertinent dictionary, bread appreciation, scientific kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-11-22
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:14:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 51,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27191591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NineMagicks/pseuds/NineMagicks
Summary: In the town of Latour, Hallows’ Eve is fast approaching and Baz Pitch has had enough. Armed with a bag of books and a head of bad memories, he sets off for the outskirts of town. He’s supposed to be selling books today, but the house at the end of the wildflower path isn’t home to the usual sort of customer...and what he finds inside is stranger than any fairy tale.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 189
Kudos: 225
Collections: Carry On Fall Exchange 2020





	1. a dirge of enthusiasm

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Gampyre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gampyre/gifts).



> This is a fic about curses, candles and situationally appropriate sandwiches, and is a Carry On Exchange gift fic for Gampyre. It is a fairy tale AU with Beauty and the Beast elements, which takes inspiration from _La Belle et la Bête_ by Mme Leprince de Beaumont, the Disney animated film, and the Simon Snow books by Rainbow Rowell. Gampyre, as well as messing with your prompt, I've also tried to fit in as many of the tropes you listed as possible. I really hope you like this fic! Thank you for reading. <3
> 
> Thank you to [arcanine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/arcanine/pseuds/arcanine) for looking over an early draft, and letting me know it was worth continuing. For beta reading, thank you to [tbazzsnow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artescapri/pseuds/tbazzsnow), your feedback is beyond appreciated, and thank you also [caitybug](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caitybug/pseuds/Caitybug) and [sconelover](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sconelover/pseuds/sconelover) for all of your help.
> 
>  **Note:** Though there are real French towns called Latour, the location in this story is entirely made up. _La tour_ = the tower. Also, the bookshop is called Quelgué Books. _Quel_ = what? and _le gué_ = ford, and so...Watford. I'm afraid that's the level of creativity you're dealing with.

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/124761403@N07/50441941091/in/dateposted-public/)

It’s a beautiful day to ply people with unwanted literature. Sunshine and the crisp snap of autumn cold greet me as I step outside, misting from my mouth as my feet meet cobbles.

_Isn’t every day beautiful when your calling is books?_

I smile, hoisting my satchel up onto my shoulder and joining a road that’s spilt gold with sunshine. My destination is the edge of town, new shoes serving me well as I swerve past carts stacked with pumpkins and picked corn, pushed by weary traders trudging their way to market for this year’s Hallows’ Eve festival. I expend the requisite number of _bonjours_ and _good days_ as I go, already aching beneath the weight of the books crammed into my bag.

_The burden of knowledge is great, I suppose. If we can call this knowledge._

It’s a beautiful day, but it isn’t my favourite. Today’s the one day of the year I have to actually _sell_ books, and not simply admire them.

“Baz, wait! You forgot the leaflets!”

I stop in the middle of the road, skidding in dust and fallen leaves, causing a particularly unhappy trader to teeter and topple her load of blood-red apples. _Typical. If my life were a book, every single chapter would begin with the words “The Incident Of”._

“ _Je suis désolé_ , Madame Possibelf.” I offer her my arm.

“ _Nom de dieu!_ Tyrannus Pitch, why can’t you look where you’re going?” (She used my first name. I’m in trouble.) “Life’s more than books and daydreams, you know. Help me gather these before the vulture-pigeons descend.”

She fires off a few choice adjectives as she rights the cart, none of them suitable for print. I do my best to salvage what fruit I can from the gutters, piling them up with a mouthful of apology.

“Look where you’re going next time, _blaireau_. Must you ruin things for everyone?”

“ _Non_ , madame—again, I’m sorry.”

She scowls and I sigh, dusting off her disdain. I know what she’ll say when she’s finished piling her apples on wooden boards, ready to sell— _that Pitch boy tried to spoil Hallowe’en again. When will he be taught some manners?_

Never. I’m twenty-one; if it hasn’t sunk in by now, my brain might never allow it.

“Baz! Hey, Baz! Leaflets!”

I turn reluctantly to see a young black man standing with a radiant smile on his face, brightly coloured papers clutched in his hands. I see tattooed words twining along fingers, disappearing into his sleeves—Shakespeare. Lines wrap around his arms in permanent ink.

“I couldn’t care less for your unsolicited marketing, bookseller.”

“If you say so.” He pushes the papers into my face. “You _do_ know it’s not Hallows’ Eve for another two nights, don’t you? What were you doing with poor Madame Possibelf, getting ahead on the scares?”

I frown, snatching at his blasted leaflets and forcing them into my overburdened bag. “You know full well I refuse to participate in Hallowe’en. Besides, _I’m_ the one who’s afraid—Possibelf looked in the mood for murder.” We nod at muttering traders, all of them seemingly on edge. “Extra paranoid this year, aren’t they? And they call _me_ mad.”

“We haven’t had a good haunting in a while. Maybe we’ll get one this year.” Shepard shrugs, tidying my sleeves. (It doesn’t pay to look scruffy in the book trade. Nobody wants to buy from a man who looks like he rolled out of bed, straight into his cup of apathy.) (For what it’s worth, nobody _wants_ to buy books from the town headcase, but I’m Shepard’s only assistant. He makes the best of it.)

One of the leaflets flies free of my bag and I catch it before the wind steals it away—neat script across the front informs me that within resides _One hundred and one charms for the discerning homeowner. Learn how to_ _protect your family against ghouls and goblins, for only nine francs! Ward your doors and windows against Extra Spectral Guests the RIGHT way!_

 _“Extra Spectral Guests._ Top quality, as always.”

“Come on, Baz,” Shepard says, clapping me on the shoulder. “It’s nothing personal. Where’s your Hallowe’en community spirit?”

 _Dead on arrival,_ I think.

I do hate Hallowe’en.

The leaflets are of the same ilk as the books I’ll be carting about with me today, on my jolly quest to appeal to the masses. Shepard says I should tuck one inside each book I sell, as extra incentive for the reader to buy more next time. 

“You’re soulless, you know that?”

He slaps me on the back again and nearly knocks me over. “You chose the book business. Sometimes it involves actual _business,_ as much as it hurts.” He pushes his glasses up his nose and gives me his best, most brilliant grin. (He’s always grinning.) (He is an inexplicably smug bookseller. His gums must ache at the end of the day.) “This is our busiest time of year. Can’t hurt to promote a new release or two!”

He’s not wrong about this being our time to shine. Quelgué Books does a roaring Hallowe’en trade, owing to its location—Latour is a swirl of quaint bakeries, pretty riverside walks, family-owned businesses and anti-monster fearmongers. A few years ago we hopped on the self-help wagon, publishing local authors who had amassed generations worth of ghoul-free living advice, and profit from it on an annual basis. The days running up to Hallows’ Eve, falling on the last night of October, are our busiest.

It’s a shame, really, that I can’t sell a bad book to save my life.

_The less time I spend thinking about monsters, the better. Every year, November seems a farther thing._

“As I remind you annually, Shepard, please accept that I cannot guarantee a sale.”

I could sell Chaucer to a duck, but hysterical non-fiction? A hopeless cause. Chalk it up to my outstanding honesty and unwavering belief in the cause. Still, despite my worthless sales record, Shepard has unerring faith that I’ll succeed eventually. (Odds are _somebody_ will take pity on me and purchase a book. If nothing else, they’ll want me off the doorstep.) _(Monsieur, that mad Pitch boy is here again! Buy something to make him go away!)_

“Now, I’ve already covered the houses in the town centre,” Shepard says, pulling a crumpled map from his pocket and drawing me an imaginary path. “Why don’t you take the outskirts, see if there are any stray houses I missed? A lot of people are setting up for the festival, but you might catch a few still at home...and you’ll get to see the year’s last flowers.”

I nod vacantly, ignoring the map and tugging at my bag strap. _The less I overthink the task, the better. The sooner it will pass and I can get back to_ not _selling books, as it should be._

Behind the monster books in my bag, there’s another—an old book of wildflowers my mother gave to me as a child. I enjoy browsing it as I drift, tracking the season’s colours. Shepard knows me well enough to guess I’ll procrastinate at the wayside. “I suppose you’ll have a stall in the square to mop up any paranoid anti-monster stragglers. Can you sleep at night for all your callous profiteering?”

He grins again, gripping my arm. “You know it. Get back to the shop before dark, will you? The roads are weird this time of year.”

_Understatement of the century._

The roads around Latour are often weird and never boring. The strangeness attracts the odd hardcore tourist, but keeps out your fair weather holidaymaker, which ensures it remains a quiet, unassuming place to live. (That’s how I like things. As boring as humanly possible.) Tourists never seem to come twice; each summer brings a stream of unfamiliar faces, scrutinising our bricks and the flakiness of the croissants.

I’ve lived in Latour my entire life. I know how peculiar people turn as Hallows’ Eve approaches, their hysteria reaching lofty peaks before trailing off as October ends, dragging its hungover ghosts. I’ve fallen victim to it myself—as a child I would cling to my mother’s skirts, begging her to check each nook and corner for _the man with the teeth._ My obsession, the undying belief in this spectre continued into adulthood, and is why most everyone avoids me now. _Basilton Pitch, frightened of the night. Weeks lost in the cold searching for his ghoulie, and it didn't exist._

Shepard doesn’t avoid me. (If _he_ saw a monster, he’s far more likely to invite it in for tea and cake than chase it off.) And though sometimes I think it sad to prey on people's fears this way, through cheap books and leaflets, they make it easy. You would think by now there’d be enough self-help guides to satisfy, but each year we print new titles, and each year they fly off the shelves. Magickal creatures give Latour a wide berth, and we laugh all the way to the bank.

“I’ll be back long before dark,” I assure him. _I’ve a date with Dumas and a punishing glass of Cabernet. No amount of financial success could deter me._

I bid Shepard farewell and watch him manoeuvre a route back to the bookshop. He’ll pass the morning at the counter, offering a sincere welcome to all who step inside. He’s good at the people aspect—caring, conversing, being disconcertingly friendly. I’m better with the books, static trappings of words that can’t answer back. (I’ve stared down a hundred tiresome customers in my life, but I’ve never met a book I don’t like.)

Townsfolk bid me a wary good morning as I pass, and I grimace in response. (I’m trying to smile but it’s difficult to consistently hit the mark.) Ducking under streamers, I almost take out a small child as she skips around me, laughing at workmen hanging banners and flags between lamp posts. I skirt the fountain to avoid a traffic jam of traders’ carts, ruddy faces shouting at each other in their eagerness to claim the best stalls at market.

It’s a racket, a circus of sound.

_I should’ve had the Cabernet for breakfast._

I’m almost free of the hubbub and contemplating the most efficient course through the maze of terraced houses, when I feel a hard grip settle around my wrist.

 _“Salut, mon chéri._ Don’t you look lovely this morning?” Slender, white fingers slide along my arm, knocking a leaf from my sleeve. I catch sight of myself in a window—my faded complexion, hair hanging in limp tangles around a worn, weary face.

“Apparently not.”

I step out of reach of the man’s cold, creeping fingertips. (He’s never warm, always wrapped in more layers than I’d know what to do with.) He moves closer.

“Nonsense, Basil. If you’re tired, might I offer a moment’s respite?”

I look—across and then down, because he’s shorter than me—into dull blue eyes, lost beneath a mop of floppy auburn hair. This man is the usual sad swirl of clichés—a sharp suit in cornflower blue, paired with polished patent shoes and a tidal wave of tanging cologne. _(So much cologne.)_ There’s a glint of bright teeth and then Lamb’s grip tightens on my arm again, steering me towards the doors that stand open behind him. 

I glance up at the sign on the wall, though I know what it says _—_ The Kathèrine Inn and Tavern has stood in the same spot for centuries. Lamb has been at its helm for as long as I can remember, though he’s always appeared ageless. He must have an astounding moisturising regime.

“No thank you, Corentin. I must pretend to do my job today—Hallowe’en is the—”

“—most profitable time of year, _oui_ , _je sais.”_ Lamb smiles, his mouth folding in all the worst ways. My instinct is to prise his fingers off—I wore my best shirt this morning, and he’ll crease it horribly—but Shepard prefers it if I’m at least _marginally_ polite to Lamb. He’s the richest man in Latour, an avid collector of books and scrolls, and easily the bookshop’s best customer. He has been accruing a labyrinthine personal library beneath the tavern for years, though never is it perused by outside eyes. “It’s the time of year when all of Latour lose their minds over imaginary beasts. I promise you, Baz—there are no monsters in _my_ tavern.”

“Wonderful news, I’m sure,” I say, with a smile of my own. (He isn’t fooled by it.) Lamb was one of the first people to come to me, after my family announced their intentions to move to the seaside last year. To get away from it all. _Things will improve now, Baz_ — _but you must stay and find your place in this town._

So I did. But people still avoid me in the street, warding me off with crossed fingers if I veer too close. It’s as if _I’m_ the monster they need protection from...me, with my ratty hair and absent work ethic.

Lamb goes to slip an arm around my shoulders, but the height difference confounds him; I seize the momentary freedom to swing my satchel into his side. Winded, I gain a few inches of precious space.

“Enjoy the opening celebrations,” I tell him. “I hear there’ll be pumpkins carved of local business owners, and children will pay a centime to smash them. Wouldn’t want you to miss _that_.”

Lamb’s expression sours as I start off along the street again, cursing my inherent unfriendliness as I fail to catch a stranger’s eye. _Merde, won’t somebody distract him? Do I not presently exude “damsel in distress”?_ It’s hard to derail Lamb once he’s seen something he likes, something that shines. And try as I might to naturally repel all and sundry, he _does_ seem to like me. (We’ll blame it on my curse of youthful beauty.)

“Come now, Basil—a cup of tea is hardly a delay.” He speaks through gritted teeth, hands clasped behind his back. This time he steps in front of me and gets his hands around my bag strap, pulling hard. (I slip, and it’s very nearly a scene. I manage to keep my balance and dignity, though it’s a close thing.) “Perhaps I can take a few of these books off your hands and provide the day’s first sale? You spend _far_ too much time cooped up in that shop. It’s such a waste.”

He says it all with a wink and a toss of his hair, which I suppose might convince _someone_ , though that someone certainly isn’t me. (I have always endured Lamb as a somewhat oily presence about town. It’s like trying to scrape the last scraps of butter off a plate, but it won’t let go.)

“I like the bookshop,” I mutter.

It’s true. Lamb and his hangers-on at the Kathèrine try to tempt me away, but the stacks remain a haven. _Books are better than people. I have yet to see evidence to the contrary._

“You’ll enjoy my tea. It’s a new blend from Brittany—I’ll brew it dark as death, the way you like it. Doesn’t that sound like a nice way to spend the day? Far away from the chaos.” He pushes a hand inside my satchel, fingers wrapping around my book of wildflowers. “I know this time of year is difficult for you _._ Let me make it easier.”

Another dig at my reputation. _Crazy Basilton and his vampire stories._ I went before the town council once and asked if the Hallows’ Eve festival couldn’t be cancelled for a year. That’s all I wanted—a break from the strange looks, the accusing book titles, the paranoia. Other towns get on reasonably well with their passing monster populations, so why can’t ours? It’s not as though they stop by often. There hasn’t been one sighted in the town itself for years, they know better. The festival is an annual storm in a teacup.

The council denied my request, and Lamb sat through the entire meeting with a smirk on his face, saying nothing on my behalf. Afterwards he insisted he had no standing with the council, but we both knew that wasn’t true—money talks, and Corentin Lamb has more silver than anyone else in Latour.

Still, for the briefest moment, his offer is tempting. It would be the easy way out of things—to curl up in a warm tavern with a hot drink, the pressure of profit taken from my hands.

But I remember the last time I was fool enough to fall for Lamb and his “hospitality”. I was trapped in the Kathèrine for countless interminable hours; Shepard had to conduct a covert raid to retrieve me, and make excuses on my behalf. Lamb kept me prisoner all day, and I suspect he would have made a night of it, too.

For a moment I smell smoke, as if a fire is lit beside me. I look around, but there’s only Lamb and his suffocating cologne.

“No tea. I’ve promised Shepard real, quantifiable results today.”

“Surely it can wait? Basil, I _insist._ ”

“You don’t, Corentin—you _persist_. There’s a difference.”

_You are a persistent elbow to the ribs. One of life’s accumulative bruises._

He hates when people use his first name. He’d be _Monsieur Lamb_ all hours of the day, if he had his way. He must see that I mean business, because his face adopts an altogether uglier slant. He’s reaching forwards with both hands, mouth twisting back to snarl his displeasure, and—

“Monsieur Lamb! The shipment of lager you ordered from _Londres_ is here—should I tell them to leave it around the back?”

I sag with relief as an anonymous barkeeper comes to my rescue. (Braden? Bradley? Bellamy?) (The Kathèrine enjoys remarkable staff turnover. By the time you learn their names, they’ve disappeared.) He comes running across the square to where we stand together, hassled and hassler.

 _“Le sang nouveau,_ ” Lamb mutters. “New blood. Utterly incapable.”

“Monsieur! Monsieur, do you need to sign the papers before the barrels come off the wagon?”

Lamb steps aside to give his instruction, and I’m not fool enough to dawdle—I execute an admirable pirouette that becomes a far less graceful stumble, sending a cart of artichokes flying as I dart off down the nearest alleyway. I am nothing short of keen in my efforts to put as many corners and question marks between me and my antagonist.

I hear Lamb call to me as I depart: _“Mon cœur, you can’t run forever!”_

But I can, and I will.

My hasty departure leads me into a neglected back garden, and I’m battered by a furious woman with a walking stick, shouting about ghosts and numpties and other undesirables of the night. _“Are you that boy from the bookshop? The one who dreams of teeth? Get away before you bring a curse down on my turnips!”_

This upstanding citizen of Latour is a prime candidate for the literature in my bag, but I’d rather not linger—Lamb could still find me here. He’ll take me back to his inn and regale me with stories of hunting trips and his enviable bank balance. (By far his best asset, but alas, not enough to make up for his death march of a personality.)

I hop the back fence, shins battered relentlessly, and fight through waist-high grass, hoping to meet with a road before long. The town of Latour is surrounded by woodland, and it’s easy to become lost if you’re not careful. I don’t come out here much—it was beyond the old walls that I saw teeth as a boy, and I’ve been mindful of shadows ever since. Twigs catch my hair and gnats plague my eyes—I pause to drag my hair back into a loose bun, wishing I’d packed a handkerchief as sweat rolls down my neck.

 _Shepard and his sales targets,_ I lament, ducking under branches, trampling weeds and nettles. _“Baz, pop out and sell a few books today, won’t you? Do your job for a change! Protect the locals from their own stupid beliefs, and while you’re out there, try not to get eaten alive by the local seedy innkeeper. His dirty money pays the bills!”_

I trip over a protruding root and almost shatter my nose against a tree, cursing everything about Latour and the wider world as I fight through the wild, only breathing when my feet touch stone again. At last I find myself on a ramshackle path, cutting behind a row of rundown bungalows.

 _Good. There we are. I’m on the outskirts, as was the original plan. We are_ not _lost and today is_ not _a lost cause._

I try to conjure the careful lines of Shepard’s map as I examine the houses. I don’t venture this far often, other than for the occasional sales excursion—I have a room above the bookshop and see no need to go further, when the stories are always so close. They take me to places my feet never could. I’m regretting it now, my propensity for hermitage, as I realise I’m lost in my own town. I contemplate which fence I ought to hop next, risking another beating to get back on track.

Stopping at the side of the path, I lean against a cherry tree, ancient and flaking. My bag slides to the ground, and it’s an instant relief to roll my shoulder and press at the ache. I wipe at my cheeks, cursing at a snag in my shirt that threatens to become a tear. _Typical. I doubt I’ll get away with billing the Kathèrine for tailoring...and so, another shirt is lost to literature._

I breathe deeply and listen to the quiet, picking up the faint rise and fall of far voices as festival preparations continue. I never attend—it’s far too noisy and monstrous for my tastes. Last Hallows’ Eve, I lingered long enough at Shepard’s stall to lose a molar to a toffee apple, then returned home to read. When I woke it was November, and I didn’t have to worry about beasts and fangs anymore. _Thus, sanity was restored to Latour._

Alas, days inevitably roll by and we’re here once again. When my breath has caught up I bend to retrieve my satchel, ready to brave the nearest bungalow—but then I glance to my left, sensing movement in the trees, and realise there’s _another_ path, breaking away into the brush.

Thrift, daisy, buttercup. Wildflowers line the way, colourful and inviting.

_Odd. This late in the year?_

I pull out my book—a trusted source on the subject, the legendary Jardin de Lavande’s _Une Anthologie des Fleurs Sauvages_ —and walk my way through the pages.

 _Strange,_ I think. _These flowers are crowded together. Here, where there’s so little sunlight, as the leaves turn to amber and dust._ But this _is_ technically the outskirts...I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to see if there’s a home nearby, one that Shepard might have missed. He’s a determined salesman, but he’s not foolhardy—he wouldn’t let himself be chased through gardens for any amount of silver.

There’s no guarantee Lamb won’t be prowling the narrow rows of maisonettes at the edges of Latour, hoping to chance upon me. It’s no choice at all between facing him and risking it along the unknown path, so I walk quickly with my head down, swatting at flies and mites that snap at me. (I’m a delicacy, it seems. _Pitch, madness cooked medium-rare_.)

The forgotten path twists and turns for what feels like a mile, drawing me deeper into woodland, and further from anything resembling civilisation. If there’s a house at the end of this, it can’t be home to anything good—the way is overgrown with rosemary and cowslip, “weeding” a distant concept that evidently didn’t make it this far from town.

 _Turn back_ , I tell myself. _One more listless corner, then we turn. There’s nothing to see but trees, and the forest as it was before._

_One more corner, and we go._

But my feet take me around another and then the next, fingers tracing lines and shapes on the page. _Lavender, poppy, iris. They’re everywhere; a chromatic riot._ The wildflowers lead me deeper and further from what I know, and I follow.

I walk until I lose all count of corners.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _je suis désolé_ \- I'm sorry  
>  _nom de dieu!_ \- for god's sake!  
>  _blaireau_ \- badger, slang for nerd/dork  
>  _salut, mon chéri_ \- hello, my darling  
>  _oui, je sais_ \- yes, I know  
>  _merde_ \- shit  
>  _Londres_ \- London  
>  _le sang nouveau_ \- new blood  
>  _mon cœur_ \- my heart  
>  _une anthologie des fleurs sauvages_ \- an anthology of wildflowers


	2. a touch of unkindness

Corner after corner, step by step.

The colours lead me further from home and I go willingly, feeling how nice it is to be led.

 _I could stay out here all day. Tell Shepard the faeries stole his books_ — _this close to Hallowe’en, he’d probably believe me._

I’ll give up soon, I’ll go back. Any moment, my feet will twist to guide me home.

I take one, two, three more stumbling steps around the next bend, and I’m finally ready to curtail my curiosity—but then I see it, inching out of darkness up ahead.

There is a small house built of crumbling red brick, doused in ivy and emerging from nowhere.

Two storeys. White-framed windows. It has a shaky-looking stone turret, bowed against years of the wind’s musings. Teetering chimneys rise from a shabby, weather-worn roof, pockmarked with moss; there’s a scattering of gargoyles perched upon the gable, chipped and dour. (They remind me of my father before he met his new wife.) The door, tall and painted black, is a void in the daylight. (It’s ajar, which is about right for an eerie eyrie at Hallowe’en.) 

A house. Out here.

(What on earth do they do for shopping?)

Shepard will most certainly _not_ have come this far, in his unflinching efforts to inflict literature upon the populace. This house is the antithesis of those crowding the square, each of them indiscriminately cheery to within an inch of good taste.

 _This_ house...if the good people of Latour wished to thoroughly exorcise their demons, well, this is surely the place they’d end up. It’s not _quite_ a fairy tale institution—it’s hardly a castle cloaked in cobwebs—but those gargoyles are nothing short of ominous.

I hesitate, chest heaving, the forest falling silent around me.

_Do I go forwards or back?_

_How badly do I need to sell a book today?_

I do what I always do when faced with indecision—I consider what _Shepard_ would do, and await his voice in my head. It’s as if he’s here alongside me, leaflets held aloft like scripture:

 _Baz, you don’t get these opportunities every day! Look at this place_ — _they’re our target audience! If ever somebody needed protection against Hallows’ Eve ghouls, it’s this guy. Get in there and sell a book, my friend. You’re so charming you could talk someone into pneumonia, if you tried. Believe in yourself! (And don’t forget the leaflets!)_

I roll my eyes and try to fake a smile. In my satchel I seek the comforting reality of spines, covers, pages. I’m surrounded by flowers, sights and scents of the forest.

I step through the open door, memorised spiel spilling forth in a dry, monotone voice that must be my own.

“Hello...? My name is Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch. I work at Quelgué Books, and I’m here to ask if you’ve had any trouble with ghosts lately. Are voices keeping you up at night?” _Any strange visions of teeth, bared against your neck?_ My question rises to a squeaking crescendo and I wait, peering through darkened doorways. _This is hardly a decent sort of welcome._ I spy an upturned table to my right, covering a smashed umbrella stand and shredded shoes. Frowning, I step through a nearby archway into what might be a living room, were the furniture not in pieces.

_Is this place abandoned, or did something happen here? It’d be just my luck to stroll into a crime scene._

Sunlight spills through the window, though not willingly—somebody, or something, has ripped the curtains off their rail. I step over crunching shards of glass, taking in scores of shattered vases, broken chairs, empty picture frames.

 _It was a nice house_ , I think, _before it was this._

Before it was a ruin.

Dropping my bag in the archway, I swallow and try to find my place in the script. “If you’re suffering unwanted visitations or bumps in the night, well, have no fear. I have just the book for you. Gareth de Gates was writing from personal experience when he said…”

I let the words trail into nothing as I arrive in what used to be a kitchen. (Presently, it’s a scene of carnage and culinary destruction.) Dried food stains track along the walls, leftovers and spills and congealed lumps of who knows what, all over the filthy floor.

 _Ah, I see. I have, in fact, made a dreadful mistake in coming here. I’ll be going now, dear house_ — _no need to pay me any mind._

I fixate for a moment on a roast chicken carcass, discarded near a dilapidated oven.

_No flies yet. Still fresh._

_Someone_ — _or some_ thing— _is here._

It’s the final push I need. I backtrack through the living room, slipping on crushed marbles and almost skewering myself on the remains of a coffee table. In a sterling effort to avoid death, I pull up short—something has caught my eye in the corner, a shine against a thrice-cracked mirror.

_Is that...fire?_

_(My dreams, always the same—teeth, blood, smoke, ashes.)_

I turn to find the source of the flame’s reflection, inwardly admitting that a good burning would likely improve the house’s present situation. I see a white candle, perhaps as tall and thick as my thumb, standing upright in a teacup. It’s sitting on a splintered chair I passed earlier. A chair I could have sworn was empty.

 _Strange,_ I think. _I didn’t notice you before._

I bend and pick up the teacup, passing my hand over the flame. I blow gently and it barely flickers, though there’s enough of a breeze rolling through the open doors and smashed windows. I can see wax melting and dripping, but it’s as if it’s a nowhere-fire—there’s no heat, the cup cold in my hands. There’s a charming illustration of wildflowers, etched into the porcelain.

I know what the nameless bartenders would say, if I marched into the Kathèrine with this. _Pitch, that’s dark magic! A demon, alive in the wax!_

If this _is_ an evil candle, it misses a prime opportunity to take my eye out as I lean in, scrutinising the floral pattern on the cup. _Thrift, daisy, buttercup._ The flame maintains a curious stoicism as I tip it one way, then the next.

 _Odd._ And then, _Interesting. By far the most interesting thing I’ve seen today._

Shepard might want to examine this. He’s far more inclined to investigate incidents of magic than prevent them—if the bookshop didn’t need to turn a profit, he wouldn’t bother with the Ghost Prohibition Society books at all. He’d probably invite passing phantoms in for a cup of tea and a singalong. Resolved, I zigzag my way to the front door, where I’m reunited with my satchel.

That’s when I hear it—a voice, coming from behind me. High-pitched, bold and bossy.

**“I do hope you’re not thinking of stealing that.”**

My eyes complete a circuit of the room. I try to keep my face perfectly straight, though I admit a touch of fear creeps into my curiosity.

_There’s no one here. Absolutely no one. The room is undeniably empty._

_Fine, so a chicken was cremated in recent times...but there’s clearly no one in this room with me_ right now, _unless they’re invisible._

 _“Qui êtes-vous?_ Are you a ghost?” I ask. (Perhaps the house doesn’t appreciate cold-callers.) _How big are your teeth?_ “I was just leaving. I’ll take my books and go.”

 **“Put down the candle,”** the voice says. I make a show of lowering the teacup to the wreckage of the carpet. **“There we go. Very good.”**

My eyebrow rises of its own accord, though if my mysterious observer sees, it fails to rattle them. “Who are you? More importantly, _where_ are you?”

 **“Over here, genius,”** the voice says petulantly. **“Under _Candide_. Good grief, save me from this satirical fate.”**

I step deftly through debris, trying to locate the disembodied voice. I end up in a far corner of the living room where a stack of books lie haphazardly, coated in dust. (Whoever lives in this hovel is clearly no reader. Nor are they a professional cleaner.) “Are you...trapped under there?”

 **“Yes, next to** ** _Les Liaisons dangereuses._ ** **The title says it all. Come on, get down here and help me!”**

I do as the voice asks and knock aside an old copy of Voltaire. Beneath it is a leather-bound dictionary: _Bunce’s Know-It-All Compendium of Words._

“I’m sorry, I don’t—”

 **“Now, listen carefully and do exactly as I say. Pick me up and take me home with you immediately, before he gets back. Then, find a nice flat surface to place me on and bring me some spectacles** — **I get terrible eye strain, seeing the world through such tiny text.”**

The dictionary vibrates at my feet, its pages rustling. I flip open the cover and skim the first few pages—it appears to be a completely ordinary (and very thorough) dictionary and thesaurus. The odd page is curling, but it’s none the worse for wear. It’s probably the best-kept thing in here.

**“Are you listening to me? We need to move.”**

“Are you _in_ the book?” I ask, flipping to the _Q_ s and finding only questions. “Where _are_ you?”

 **“There’s a word for people like you,”** the voice groans. The pages beneath my fingers crinkle morosely. **“Hang on, let me find it. It’s in here somewhere.”** The book rattles violently, knocking me back on my heels. _“_ **Ah, there it is** ** _. Idiot._** **You’re a blithering idiot.”**

I’ve never been insulted by a reference book before, and I don’t quite know how to take it. I wrestle the damned thing closed and stand, turning to examine the back cover. _Nothing unusual there, either._

 **“How rude! Stop wasting time,”** it snaps. **“Take me home before** — **”**

“Who in the flying fuck are _you?_ ”

_Before that._

There’s a new, louder, much _angrier_ voice, coming from the kitchen. I don’t particularly want to learn of its origins, seeing as I’m still reeling from the dictionary’s unpleasantness. My traitorous feet, however, deem it wise to pivot...and I’m brought face to face with what is unquestionably the New Most Interesting Thing I’ve seen today.

 _Oh. Well. It’s_ —

_That is to say..._

_You see, he’s_ —

My life before this moment is far away. The town, falling leaves, carts of pumpkins, Shepard’s encouragement, Possibelf’s scattered apples, Lamb’s greasy fingers—all of it is gone, and everything shrinks to this. To _him_.

_A monster. A real monster, not a mere dream of teeth and blood._

My reaction, after the knee-jerk impulse to run screaming passes, is that the creature in the doorway doesn’t look as bad as he could. (I assume it was, or _is_ , a man my own age—he’s not wearing a shirt, and I’m seeing more chest than I expected to when leaving for work this morning.) (It is, quite possibly, the hairiest chest I have ever seen.)

_I’ve spent my life afraid of the dark, but when it finally materialises before me…_

_...I’m not afraid._

Perhaps I’ve become desensitised after years of flogging books about monsters to bored homeowners, but this creature only has _two_ eyes, rather than the seven or so included in most standard illustrations. From what I can see, there are no spaded tails or additional limbs or dangly bits that defy description. (John Milton would turn up his nose at such paltry fare, but I don’t mind.) It _does_ look like he might once have had wings—there are two sore, scaly stubs sticking out from between his bare shoulder blades, raw and unhappy. I see them as he turns to roar into the empty kitchen, walls flecked with spittle.

_Did he rip them off, I wonder? Like the wings of a butterfly. Or orange peel._

I suspect the monster’s hair was bronze before it was shot through with streaks of midnight...and before his skin was taken by twisting swathes of blue and red, he was tawny—gold, freckles, moles. Patches of who he was before still cling to his arms and chest.

_You were a man before you were this._

_And though it seems an odd time to think it, I’d say you were quite lovely._

I am looking at an unfortunate soul who managed to get themselves cursed, and can’t find a way out of it. I shouldn’t be this calm, facing the manifestation of every Hallowe’en tale I’ve ever been told, the personification of all I hate about this time of year.

But something about the monster...it tells me not to worry. I don’t think he wants to hurt me.

The creature’s—no, the _man'_ _s_ —eyes are blue. I see them clearly for a moment as they drag along me, a mouthful of sharp teeth exposed as he settles his attention on the candle at my feet.

“Get away from that!” he roars, stumbling and ending up on all fours, talon-tipped fingers twisting into glass and rubble. I watch as a sharp fang stretches and cuts deep into his lip. Blood wells up, dark and wet. _“Get out of here._ ”

“Now, there’s really no need to shout.”

 _“Why are you here? If you think_ —”

“No!” I say quickly. (His accent is odd. He’s not from Latour.) “I _don’t_ think! Not thinking is what brought me here; I was just following the flowers! Look, there’s really no need for you to shout, and...drool.”

 **“His lack of manners is what got him into this mess** — **I’m afraid there’s little point in trying to reason. He’s like an elephant with a stick up its arse.”**

I hold out my free hand, the other still clutching the compendium, and I’m suddenly overpowered by a waft of smoke so strong my eyes water.

 _It’s like a dream come to life_ — _but where’s the fire?_

_(The teeth, the blood.)_

“Why are you still _here?”_ the creature moans.

Around us, the house’s walls begin to shimmer—heat, streaking up peeling wallpaper, hot and heavy in the air above our heads. I continue to back away, tripping over an eviscerated cushion, scrambling on my elbows and knees.

_I’ll have a month’s worth of silver out of Shepard for this. Go to the outskirts, he said. Sell a few books, it’ll be grand._

_Oh, and mind the monster in the forest. He’s pretty fucking terrifying._

**“He’s gearing himself up for a right strop. I’d get going, if I were you.”**

I spare the dictionary a withering look. The monster vaults over ruined furniture to block the archway, kicking at my satchel.

“What’s this? Weapons?” His voice is a scratch, a sore. “Another clever fucking _spell?_ No. You _can’t_ leave. You have to stay.”

The musty carpet is warming beneath my feet. Is the entire house about to go up in flames?

“Sorry,” I gasp, to myself more than anything. Today was _not_ the sort of day to be getting out of bed. Hallowe’en is a time to lock yourself indoors and ignore all the weirdness that can’t help but happen. “I’m supposed to be working, so...I’m afraid I must be going. Can’t be paid to sit around and chat all day. _À bientôt.”_

“You what? Stay where you are. You’re...you’re a prisoner! _Bagsy you’re not leaving._ ”

“What on _earth_ is wrong with you?” I don’t know what kind of foul eldritch magic this _bagsy_ entails, and I don’t intend to find out.

I try to edge past him without making physical contact, but he has his scaly fists dug into the stones either side, bellowing at me to stay. _Where?_ I want to cry. _Where would I stay? This house is an obstacle course in personal injury!_

The dictionary comes to my defence. **“Simon, for heaven’s sake, let him go** — **he’s not going to** **_tell_ ** **anyone.”**

I’m bent over, choking hard on the smoke. The monster— _S_ _imon?_ What a spectacularly boring name—doesn’t seem affected by it. (Is he the cause? Is the dictionary figuratively hacking up a lung?) “The book’s right,” I croak. “I won’t. I won’t tell anyone you’re here.”

_Haven’t you heard? I’m the town nutter. I’ve got a sterling track record of claiming to see monsters that don’t exist, thus thrusting Latour into further spirals of paranoid preventative measures. I could tell them the river was wet, and they’d throw me in to double-check._

The creature named Simon is not convinced. New patches of green and blue burst across his hands and fingers, and what is already a busy mouth becomes crowded with an extra set of fangs, complete with menacing saliva drip. (Now _this_ is more like the illustrations.)

He’s still a man, but barely. As the house hums with mordant magic, the monster takes over.

_“If you’re going to leave, then get out. Don’t come back. And don’t tell anyone I’m here, else I’ll...I’ll…”_

“You’ll what?” I snap, flustered and dripping with sweat. The air’s thick with black smoke—the horns sprouting from his head are reduced to a hazy outline, lowered against me. “Set fire to _my_ house, as well? _Bête comme ses pieds.”_

 **“Don’t antagonise him,”** the book whispers in my arms. **“He’s almost at the point of no return.”**

I take a deep breath of unbreathable air, and ask him to step aside. He roars at me, then crumples. _“Get. Out!”_

Well, you needn’t scream at _me_ twice in one day. The house shakes around us; I take in the sight of him hunched on the floor, tatty trousers hanging in shreds from his legs. His bloodied shoulder blades are sure to haunt me well along the path to civilisation. He looks up at me, and I see what I see in the mirror each morning—pain. A sensation of being lost, far off the path and unable to find your way home.

_Who is he? How long has he been out here, suffering like this?_

In my arms, the dictionary wriggles and pleads, **“Take me with you. I can’t help him if I’m stuck in here.”**

“Help him,” I mutter. “Is that what we want to do?” _Is that what_ he _wants?_

And I do want to help, I think; the idea of another being in such pain is unbearable. The walls around me clack and bicker.

 _We leave now, or not at all._

I’ve the presence of mind to retrieve my satchel from the hallway, heaving it up for what is sure to be a brisk return to Latour. The strap slips down my shoulder and something tumbles out—my wildflower book. Though it hurts, there’s no time to retrieve it—I sidestep around the quivering, scaly mass, relieved to feel the house’s heat retreat somewhat. Smoke dissipates as things return to their previous, unsizzling state.

I don’t look to see if the monster—the _man_ —is following me with his eyes, but I suspect he is. It feels like two flames, burning holes through my back.

“What is he?” I ask the book as we flee, forest sinister as it swallows us whole. Furious shouts fade behind me, and I feel a sting in my throat at the idea of him, lost in himself. “Who did that to him?”

The dictionary’s quiet for a time, and I’ve almost convinced myself it never spoke at all. We reach the row of bungalows I lingered near earlier, before the day took a turn for the haunted. _(Was_ that today? It feels like an age ago.) 

Pages flutter in my hands, and the voice says, **“I know it looks bad, but he’s nice once you get to know him. A right laugh at parties. This was all a big misunderstanding, and if I can just get him back to his moderately uncursed form, things will work out fine.”**

It’s ludicrous. Everything about today is absolutely unnecessary. I drag myself towards the nearest garden fence and hope there are no further collisions with walking sticks in my immediate future. (My new shoes are ruined, and I am _not_ happy about it.)

“I’m taking you to the bookshop. My colleague can deal with you whilst I drown myself in wine and try to forget the last few hours of my life.”

**“Thanks, I appreciate it. Good luck with the drowning. By the way, do you have a name? Seeing as we’ve defied incineration together, it might be nice to know.”**

“Baz,” I sigh, sneaking out through the gate into an alleyway. Up ahead I hear cart wheels, raised voices and _life_. The town, clueless as to what lurks beyond its limits. _A man as monster. A boy as beast_. “And who might you be?”

 **“Nice to meet you, Baz** — **I’m Penny. I haven’t always been a book, but it is what it is.”**

“Yes,” I say vacantly, stepping out into sunshine. _Am I really doing this, exchanging pleasantries with a dictionary?_ “If you say so.”

When I glance back towards the bungalows, and beyond them the trees, I fancy I see a candle flickering briefly in shadow. A cold, unmoving flame, warning me away.

_Blue eyes, broken glass, a hidden pathway._

_Tell me stranger, what cursed you this way?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _qui êtes-vous?_ \- who are you?  
>  _à bientôt_ \- see you later/soon  
>  _le bagsy_ \- deep eldritch magic, laying claim to something  
>  _bête comme ses pieds_ \- idiom, stupid as your feet
> 
>  _Candide_ \- a satirical novella by Voltaire, 1759.  
>  _Les Liaisons dangereuses_ \- a novel by Pierre Choderlos de Laclos, 1782.


	3. a curse of circumstance

I crash through the doors of Quelgué Books, bellowing for Shepard at the top of my lungs. (I have always _loved_ a dramatic entrance.) (If there were an ounce of magic within me, I’d use it solely to open doors in climactic moments.) A customer cowers at the counter, apologises for existing, then goes skittering towards the exit.

“Hey, Baz,” Shepard says calmly, counting coins into the money drawer. “That was quick. You look tired—did somebody chase you with a stick again?”

“Yes, walking stick to the shins—but that’s not important.” I slide the now-silent dictionary across the wood towards him. “Shepard, is there anybody here? Any customers in the stacks?”

He glances up, drumming his fingers on the book’s front cover. (I’m surprised Penny doesn’t bite his fingers off—she was suspiciously quiet during the inelegant run over here.) (She spoke to confirm that she was _a brilliant woman about my own age, temporarily inconvenienced by the restrictions of traditional print_ , and wisely shushed herself when we encountered people.)

“I don’t think so. There was Rhys, but you scared him off. It’s funny because he was buying horror novels, and if you can’t handle a standard dramatic entrance, you probably—”

“Excellent, very good, _merveilleux.”_

I do a quick tour of the shelves, poking my head into the usual reading nooks and finding them empty. For the sake of fastidiousness, I check the staff areas, then return to the doors and bolt them, doing my best to reign in my laboured breathing. _Calm. Stay calm. There’s nothing to fear_ — _you know these books well._

“It didn’t go great, then?” Shepard asks. He isn’t angry; he pulls the untouched books from my bag and arranges them on a shelf behind the counter. He’ll sell them quickly enough when we reopen. _(If_ we reopen.) “Where’s your flower book?”

“Gone. And it did _not_ go great,” I say, watching the dictionary carefully for signs of life. (Does she know we’re here? Should I acquire the requested spectacles and arrange them on an index page?) “If my initial social mauling, courtesy of Corentin Lamb, wasn’t bad enough, I then ended up lost in the woods.” I stare at my shoes, avoiding all reflective surfaces. I don’t want to see how awful I look. (Shepard’s glasses are reflective. _No eye contact for you._ )

“Sounds fun,” he says sincerely, opening the dictionary’s cover to glance at the title page. “Baz, you might be the only bookseller I know who can go on a sales run and end up _increasing_ our inventory.”

I hold my breath, positive that this intrusion will prove sufficient to rouse Penny’s ire, and I’m right—the book snaps shut on Shepard’s fingers and doesn’t let go.

“What the—it’s _alive?”_

**“Let me make one thing perfectly clear,”** comes the voice, shrill and absolutely terrifying. **“I am** **_not_ ** **for sale. Do you understand me?”**

“Sure, yes, of course,” Shepard says immediately. I watch the struggle play out on his face as the need to be a decent host does battle with the complexities of offering a cup of tea to a book. “You’re a...dictionary. Enchanted sub-type, I’m assuming. That’s...neat? Can I get you anything?”

**“Bookseller, the only** **_neat_ ** **thing about my present predicament is the contents page.”** Paper shuffles so that her point can be proven. **“I** **_did_ ** **request spectacles earlier,”** she adds primly. Shepard’s hand is released, blessedly uninjured.

“Spectacles I can do. I've been working on a new reading glass, actually, and maybe we could—”

“Shepard, there's no time for _inventions_ ,” I hiss. “And no sales pitches! The glasses presently occupying your face will suffice."

He looks mildly disappointed, but recovers. Turning from me, he asks, "How did you and Baz meet? Is there a new talking bookshop in town? I need to stay ahead of the competition.”

**“I’ve already told you,”** the dictionary vociferates, **“** **I** **_am not_** **,** **_was not,_ ** **and** **_never will be_ ** **for sale! To which dimwit am I currently speaking?”**

Shepard whips his glasses off his nose and places them on top of the book. He then thinks better of it, flipping to a random page and placing the glasses in the middle. “I’m Shepard, from Latour. You’re in Quelgué Books right now—let me know how I can make your stay more comfortable. Do _you_ have a name?”

I must say, he’s taking this whole thing remarkably well. He’s the only person in the entire town who has consistently stuck by me, through years of rumours and gossip. If it were up to him, he’d go out right now, hunting for the monster from my childhood. (More to examine it, than report it to the council.)

**“Penny. Penelope Bunce. And I’d appreciate a nice paperback to lean on, if you have one handy. Nothing too sordid.”**

“Bunce? Wait, your title…” he begins, attempting to close the dictionary for another look. Penny’s pages rustle indignantly. He reaches for a paperback called _Soft Ghosts and How to Scare Them!_ and slides it beneath the spine. _“Bunce’s Know-It-All Compendium,_ right? Can’t say I’ve heard of it. What edition are you?”

I stand, amazed and appalled, as Shepard makes casual chit-chat with an abrasive dictionary. I’m convinced that somebody will have seen me conversing with it on the way here—perhaps they followed me and are gathering now at the bookshop’s doors, pitchforks in hand. (Latour _does_ love a good uproar.) Or perhaps no one would be surprised to see I’d finally lost it. _It’s just Baz Pitch, holding discourse with his books again. Steer clear._

I glance nervously through frosted glass. There doesn’t _appear_ to be anyone outside, but we shouldn’t grow complacent—we need to have Penny’s problem addressed and dispensed with, before somebody finds out she’s here. (The shop _would_ appear rather hypocritical, if we were discovered harbouring a cursed dictionary after such an intense sales campaign.)

Penny describes to Shepard the rough whereabouts of the red brick house, in the woods north of town. _Flowers up to your eyeballs,_ is one of the helpful directions she gives. He interrupts numerous times to ascertain the details. 

“Is it a spooky castle? A haunted palace hidden in the forest? That’s a storybook staple.” 

**“No, it’s more of a cottage—”**

“What, not even a drawbridge?”

**“No, there’s** — **”**

“I’m telling you, it’s getting harder and harder to stumble upon mysterious enchanted castles these days. Ever since the council enacted their Restricted Magickal Residence regulations, they’ve steered clear of Latour.”

**“But, you see—”**

“Can’t blame them. The tax rates are insane. Do you know how much it’d set you back to own a classic four-towered castle around here?”

**“...is he always like this?”**

After beating him into silence with the weight of her outraged punctuation, Penny tells us that she has been living as a dictionary for the best part of a month.

**“Which really isn’t** **_too_ ** **dreadful, you need to overlook all the comma splices.”**

Bunce has been a book since a curse was put upon her _dread companion_ , as she calls him, by a travelling witch. It’s then I learn that the monster in the house is her childhood friend, and his full name is Simon Snow.

**“We were visiting Latour to attend the Hallows’ Eve festival** — **it’s very famous, and miles better than anything at home. We were supposed to stay at a hotel called the Catherine? Posh, apparently. We got lost on the way, and Simon strolled into a disagreement with a fellow traveller, not knowing she was a fully-qualified witch. I, unfortunately, was caught in the crossfire.”**

Penny and Shepard then spend the best part of twenty minutes discussing the perils of associating with high-ranking witches whilst I shuffle from foot to foot, on the verge of panic. One part of the book’s story jumps out at me, and I suppose I ought to interrupt and clarify before I lose them completely.

“Snow, you said. Your friend. He’s been turned into a monster by a witch’s curse.”

**“Yes, and like I said before, he really isn’t** **_that_ ** **bad. Overall, I’d say he’s definitely worth saving** — **he got into a tussle over his less than stellar manners, and the witch cursed him with chronic unkindness.”** She tries to sigh, a ripple of sursurrance. **“We’d found an empty house to stay in when the weather was bad one night. We were lost, and gave up looking for the town. The witch came to the door at midnight, seeking shelter** — **I was all for it, but Simon told her to bugger off**. **And she did...but not without spelling him twixtwards.”**

By the sounds of it, Snow was lucky to come away with his limbs intact. (And an extra set of teeth.) (And _horns.)_ Shepard expresses a severe interest in meeting him, and the dictionary begins flipping rapidly through its own pages, eventually giving up and asking me for a hand.

“How hairy is he? On a scale of one to ten.”

“ _Why_ , Shepard?”

“It’s not everyday you meet a walking curse, Baz! I want details.”

**“Turn to the** **_M_** **s, will you? I tucked something in there for safekeeping. It might be helpful...and it might shut you up.”**

I do as commanded, and find a small square of glass pressed between _marauder_ and _masquerade._

“A mirror?” I ask, taking in my own ghastly visage. (On a good day my complexion is rich, almost red-gold when the sun catches me. Right now, I’m ten shades of wallpaper paste.) 

**“Yes, well done, very astute. Now, look into it and say,** **_je veux voir la bête._ ** **You have to mean it, else he won’t appear.”**

“I want to see _...the beast?_ Come now, he doesn’t look _that_ bad.”

**“Basil, are we going to argue semantics? It’s an extension of the witch’s sparkling sense of humour. She gave it to me, said it would be understandable if I left but wanted to keep in touch. Then** **_this_ ** **happened, and I’ve not had use for it. Bloody idiot is a stage-ten clinger since he grew webbed feet.”**

I hold the mirror in one hand and, despite my reservations, speak the words aloud. _Je veux voir la bête._ The glass mists over in my palm, and then he’s _there_ —inches from me, hunched on the living room floor in the red brick house, shoulders shaking. (Is he crying?)

Shepard takes the glass and his eyes grow wide as he turns it this way and that, examining Simon Snow in his misery. “Wow! Instant eight-out-of-ten for hairiness, and those _horns_. He seems sad, though...is there a way around the spell he’s under? I’d like to help him out.”

I nod in agreement, pocketing the glass as the sight of Snow fades back to my own reflection. _Help. Yes. That’s what we must do._

“How does his curse work? What are the rules?” I’ve read enough self-help books to know there’s usually a condition, a clause through which the magic can be undone.

“Did you kiss him?” Shepard asks, counting off clichés on his fingertips. “Declare your love? Propose an alliance? Get down on one knee?”

“ _Non, certainement pas,”_ I splutter, remembering Snow on his own knees, struggling to breathe through the smoke. “I...well, I was trying to sell him a book, at first.”

“Oh come on, Baz—you’ve read enough stories to know the answer is nearly always true love. Did you ask him to dance? Offer him your hand?”

“ _Non, écoute_ …stop it. If you’d been there instead of me, Shepard, no doubt you would have secured both the day’s first sale _and_ a _fiancé.”_

“You’re absolutely right,” he grins, turning back to Penny.

She flips to the letter _S._ **“Right, well, if you’re quite finished theoretically seducing my sad, hairy friend, we’ll discuss the curse’s rules, shall we?”** She flaps at me. **“Lord Byron, did you feel the house shake before we left?”**

I nod. (And frown. _Byron?_ Really?)

_I felt the house beginning to burn, too. Smoke and white-hot pain._

**“That’s what happens when Simon gets upset. Magic gets everywhere, and it’s** **_always_ ** **the bad sort.** **_Chronic unkindness,_ ** **you see** — **he’s incapable of producing good spells**. **If he goes** **_off,_ ** **as he nearly did today, it’s catastrophic. That’s how I took a personal turn for the paginated.”**

Shepard is flailing in the background, thrilled beyond words. ( _Finally._ )

“He’s cursed with...unkindness,” I say, strained. _Terminal untidiness, too, by the looks of things. That, and a propensity for shredded chicken._ “So he _accidentally_ turned you into a book?”

**“We were arguing. He started developing scales and knobbly bits in unspeakable places, his mouth filled with teeth...and then the wings, you know. They come and go.”**

She speaks casually, as if describing a pet dog. Something lovable that I ought to love, too. 

**“I told him he needed to** ** _think_** **about the curse. The witch only gave him until Hallows’ Eve to perform an act of** **true kindness** — **and time moves quicker than you’d believe. Well, he lost his temper. The candle you found...she said it would** ** _guide the way._** **Once it burns out, he’s done for. Trapped as a beast forever. I took to measuring it every morning as a reminder.”**

I grimace. Having met the man, albeit briefly, I can only imagine how well _that_ was received. 

**“He called me a know-it-all and said I needed to stop ordering him to use his words** **_and_ ** **his brain, because it was too much at once. I sighed, he screamed, the walls shook, and when I opened my eyes there I was. All one thousand, seven hundred and fifty-seven pages of me.”**

_Use your words, indeed._

**“I warned him** — ** _no good comes of witches miraculously appearing at midnight, Simon. Let her sleep on the settee._ ** **But he never listens to me.”**

There’s a shout from outside; I move to the front door to watch through a crack. Two traders are arguing over a cask of ale—the usual Hallowe’en theatrics. The festival begins tonight and runs until the thirty-first—if Snow’s curse is to be broken, he needs to get a move on. I inform Penny of the dwindling days, and she flaps unhappily.

**“I** **_knew_ ** **we were almost out of time. It’s difficult to keep track when you’re all spine and no pocket watch, and he’s naturally resistant to calendars.** **_Honestly,_ ** **Simon** — **he complains constantly about what he looks like, and then can’t be arsed to do a thing about it.”**

I press my lips together, remembering how he’d looked, crouched on the scorched carpet. _Chicken bones and splinters. His manners must have been absolutely atrocious to upset the witch so badly._

“Two nights until Hallowe’en.”

And if he’s trapped as a mannerless monster forever, this stranger?

Once he’s discovered by the overly suspicious locals of Latour, it will _not_ end well.

_It will end in flames._

“What can we do?” Shepard asks, rifling through the shop’s reference section for inspiration. “How do we break your friend’s curse? I still say the true love angle is worth a try.”

**“He needs to perform one act of true kindness** — **I couldn’t say if a good snogging falls under that rather vague term, could you? Kindness is harder than it sounds, when he’s always in a foul mood.”** Penny expresses an interest in seeing the festival preparations, so Shepard lifts her up to the window, where she shuffles appreciatively. **“Oh, it** **_is_ ** **nice to be here. I was rather hoping, being the bookish sort, that you’d know of something that could help us. A book of magic, maybe** — **some sort of anti-cursing remedy?”**

I snort, pacing creaking floorboards, driving further scuffs into my once-pristine shoes. “You’re in the wrong place for _undoing_ curses, Bunce. Latour is utterly archaic in its attitudes towards the unreal—if there’s even a _mention_ of magic, there’ll be a scene. Monsters in these parts move on as quickly as they arrive.” I hesitate, drowning in a lifetime’s worth of shunning. “It won’t end well.”

**“Typical. He’s going to be stuck as a goblin-adjacent grump forever, isn’t he? And** **_I’ll_ ** **be trapped as a dictionary. Imagine how much money he’ll lose on razors every month! His back is a yeti’s lament. This is not ideal...in fact, it’s the** **_opposite_ ** **of ideal. Hang on, I’ve got some antonyms here** — **it’s** **_problematic._** **”**

Shepard has dashed off into the stacks, muttering to himself; he returns a moment later empty-handed. “I thought we _did_ have a book about amateur counter-curses, but...looks like somebody bought it.”

I inspect my nails as he circles back to the counter, holding up different coloured bookmarks to Penny, trying to find the one she likes best. (As it turns out, the dictionary is partial to purple.)

_We all know who bought that book, who buys every single book about magic that passes through these doors._

“Lamb has it,” I mutter. “Buried in his vast library, never to be seen again.”

I immediately regret my words. The dictionary seizes them, flapping up to rest on its edges. I feel for all the world like I’m being judged by language itself. **“** ** _Who_ ** **bought it? Somebody with a vast library, you say? We could definitely use a vast library. Take me there.”**

“Absolutely not,” I scoff.

“Lamb owns the best inn in town,” Shepard explains, lying her back down gently. “The Kathèrine—I bet that’s where you were supposed to be staying. Don’t get in a flap though, Penelope—he doesn’t let _anyone_ look at his books. He _might_ let Baz, if he…well. He’s a lot nicer to Baz than the rest of us, let’s put it that way.”

I silence my colleague with a look, but it’s too late. The dictionary is morbidly attached to the conversation, and I fear what might await me in my immediate future.

“I wouldn’t say he’s nice to me. _Slimy_ —that’s closer to the truth.”

**“Slimy, nice** — **what’s the difference? The important thing is, does this man** **_like_ ** **you?”** ****

Sounds come out of my mouth, though none forming actual words.

**“Good grief. Well, I suppose** **_someone_ ** **has to see past that frown. You’d give Simon a run for his money.”** I resent that. (And frown harder, just to prove a point.) **“Would Lamb let you look at his magickal books if you, y’know...** ** _asked nicely?_ ** **Wink wink, nudge nudge.”**

My head could roll clean off my shoulders with how furiously I shake it. “Absolutely not. No winking, no nudging! I am _not_ offering myself up like a Sunday morning breakfast buffet.”

**“Why not? I’m not asking you to** **_kiss_ ** **him. Although that** **_would_ ** **be funny, wouldn’t it? If it really was the obvious solution, all along:** **_a magickal kiss to break the prince’s spell._ ** **No offence, Baz** — **Simon would chew your face off if you got within a metre of him.”**

My face is burning, head filled with thoughts of putting my lips against his, and…

...although, if Simon _weren’t_ a beast perhaps...it would be rather...

I’m interrupted by the dictionary once again. **“Just be polite and ask if he has any books about counter-curses. Use a seductive tone and a few big words, see where it gets you.”**

“A _seductive tone?”_ If any part of me believed in harming books, she’d be first for the pyre. “Nobody’s seducing the innkeeper,” I spit. “I’d never make it out alive.”

**“Suit yourself, then** — **we’ll keep things cordial. If it means anything, Simon would be** **_very_ ** **grateful.”** It’s as if I haven’t spoken. She’s a lexicon possessed. **“Basilton, do you have any cleaner shirts than this one? One without rips? We’ll have to do something with your hair, too. Do birds live in there? We might as well make you presentable** — **don’t you agree, bookseller?”**

“Oh yeah,” Shepard agrees, twisting in the knife. “I’m always trying to make him look more presentable. It’s great for sales. And hey, Baz—I’ve got a few maps that he ordered. You could take them with you as an ice-breaker—he’s been asking a lot of questions about America, lately.”

“An ice-breaker. Perfect. Wonderful. Oh, _j’adore ma vie_.”

It swiftly becomes apparent that my say in events from here on out will be minimal. I hear malevolent mutterings of _rouge_ and _eyeliner_ exchanged between book and bookseller, and then I’m being handled like a cheap ornament, prettied for auction.

When I step out onto the street at shortly past midday, maps tucked under an arm, it’s to a chorus of whistles from a group of despicable youths, walking by the shop towards the square. _“Pitch, do you dress this nicely for all the monsters?”_

_No. Just the cursed ones with horns, apparently._

I glare at Shepard through the frosted glass and dedicate an obscene hand gesture to his memory. (He’s holding Bunce aloft like a prize, so she too can revel in my misery.)

Then I’m stomping down the steps and walking begrudgingly in the direction of the Kathèrine, where I’m to use something called _wit_ and _passable charm_ to ascertain whether or not Lamb, the king of unctuosity himself, has a book to undo a monster.

_Simon Snow, I hope you’re worth it,_ I think, feeling self-conscious as I tug at the satin ribbon in my hair. (My hair’s in a ponytail for the first time in years, worn over one shoulder.) My face feels insufferably heavy, though the only thing Shepard applied was a deft flick of eyeliner, purloined from lost property. (I turned down the face powder. He _did_ force me into a clean shirt.)

_Dearest beast, I hope there’s something in you worth saving._

Before I push open the door to the inn I linger, fingers closing around the square of glass in my pocket. I pull it out, cup my hands over it, and whisper to the wind: _je veux voir la bête._

And there he is. Simon’s no longer on the floor, and there don’t appear to be tears in his eyes—he’s in a room with rounded walls (the turret?), staring at the enchanted candle and muttering to himself. He paces—back and forth, back and forth, scratching at the mess of his wings. What would he say if he knew I could see him? No doubt something scathing. I push him into my pocket, nerves fluttering to the surface.

“ _Bienvenue_ , Monsieur Pitch! The master was hoping you’d come. Are those the maps he ordered?”

I jump at a man’s voice and turn; the Kathèrine’s bartender is there in the doorway, beckoning me in.

“Oh. Right.” _The master? Ugh._ “Well then, Biggins—thank you. And yes. Maps. Here you are.”

“It’s Braden,” he says as I step through the opening. He takes the scrolls from me, clutching them proudly. “The New World!”

Whilst my eyes are adjusting between the bright of the street and the tavern’s low lamps, Lamb hooks his claws into me.

_“Mon dieu_ , if it isn’t the busy bookseller himself. Have you brought something for me?”

“Yes,” I say awkwardly, avoiding his gaze. “Shepard sent me over with the maps you ordered, and...a question.”

I wait for him to peruse the scrolls with greedy eyes. He seems pleased enough.

“Well then, _mon trésor_ —what answer can I provide?”

Buttons (was that his name?) lets the door close and goes back to whatever anonymous task he was performing before my arrival. The maps are stacked on a table by the fire; how long before they’re vanished into the library, never to be seen again?

Lamb slinks away from me towards the bar. His welcome is more tepid than the usual tactile affair, though I don’t miss the way his eyes brighten. (I _do_ look fetching—it wasn’t the eyeliner itself I objected to, more the motivation behind it.)

I attempt to adjust my features into something sultry and cross the tavern, sliding onto one of the empty bar stools. If this were a normal drinking establishment, the curmudgeonly barkeep would ask for my order and take my proffered coin with a grunt, and we’d both go about our day.

But this is no ordinary bar.

This is Lamb’s domain, and he intends to rule it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _merveilleux_ \- marvellous  
>  _je veux voir la bête_ \- I want to see the beast  
>  _non, certainement pas_ \- no, certainly not  
>  _écoute_ \- listen  
>  _j’adore ma vie_ \- I love my life  
>  _bienvenue_ \- welcome  
>  _mon dieu_ \- my god  
>  _mon trésor_ \- my treasure/sweetheart


	4. a flick of eyeliner

I sit at the bar and wait for my drink, dreading the oncoming slew of interminable minutes. Lamb looks my way and flashes me a blinding smile. (Does he get his teeth bleached?)

_Everything’s fine. Everything’s under control. Nothing bad is going to happen._

_Ask a question, receive an answer, and leave without looking back._

I watch him out of the corner of my eye as he busies himself, rambling on about the festival and profits and restless spirits—the usual glib mulch. I expect some sort of complicated cocktail dilemma, but instead he turns and slides me a glass of wine, dark and bloody.

“You look like you could use a touch of Merlot,” he says, smirking. (His smooth facade is shattered when he turns to screech at Barnaby(?) about the pork roast, rotating above the fire.) “ _Milles excuses_. You really can’t find decent staff these days.”

It amazes me that the Kathèrine tears through employees the way it does. There’s a constant parade of young, eager bartenders moving through its doors, only to be spat out into oblivion weeks later. Lamb must be an absolute nightmare to work for.

I consider the wine—and all the things he might have done to it—and decide that a clear head is the best course of action. I’m far too nervous to remain in character—the plan is to ask Lamb about his library as directly and succinctly as possible, and excuse myself before he gets started on one of his long, meandering stories. Shepard and Penny are awaiting my return, and it’s as if there’s a clock ticking in the back of my mind, counting down Snow’s remaining minutes.

 _Why do you care so much, Basil? It sounds as though he might have deserved it, if the devil’s manners are truly_ that _bad._

I bring the glass to my lips and fail to take a sip.

_Truthfully, it’s hard to condemn anyone to a lifetime of unkindness._

“What I need is a book,” I say plainly, thoroughly unimpressed by the moose head hung above the bar. (There’s no chance he acquired it himself. Lamb is solidly of the secondhand trophy variety.) (The only naturally occurring _moose_ in these parts comes in cardboard tubs, with superfluous _U_ s and _Ss_.) “And you do have the most impressive library in town.” I prop my chin in my hand and pray Shepard’s flicks of eyeliner do their job. My colleague must be a finer artist than anticipated—Lamb leans across the bar to admire me, pulling at his cuffs.

 _“Bien sûr._ It’s also the _biggest.”_

_And you easily are the biggest headache I've had this week._

“I see you appreciate my decorations—there’s nothing like a good pair of antlers, don’t you agree? There are trophies in every room of the inn. I could show you.”

“No, thank you.”

_Trophies. Of what, auction house superiority?_

All I see when I look at the walls are a monster’s horns, ripped from his head.

Portraits flank the antlers, hanging from every visible space around the tavern. They show Lamb’s predecessors dressed in suits and hunting gear, leather and finery. There’s a dazzling array of facial hair concurrent with the passing time—the only way I can differentiate between what must have been his grandfather, great-grandfather and great-great-grandfather is the style of beard they’re sporting, the amount of grey blending with auburn. _That handlebar moustache is truly unforgivable._ Lamb is always clean-shaven, but you can still see the shape of his face as it moves through generations, glaring out from oil and gouache.

He told me once that he was an only child, like his _père_ and _grand-père_ before him. A long line of sons without families. I asked him if he was lonely.

He said he could always find company, when he was in the mood to seek it.

“Well then, _mon chéri._ What book are you looking for?”

“I was wondering,” I murmur, fey behind my glass, “if your collection would happen to include any magickal texts. Specifically, ones concerning curses and their countermeasures.” I bat my eyelashes, running through the brief list of “recommended moves” Penny lectured into me as I departed. _Basil, have you ever flirted with anyone who_ isn’t _a long-dead author?_

(The answer is no.)

If he’s alarmed by my controversial enquiry, Lamb doesn’t show it. Instead he stands, working his way around the bar to lurk beside me. He takes both my glass and his own in hand, leading me to a low table by the fire.

“We must be more comfortable whilst speaking of such things. I knew this day would come.”

First: _Comfortable. Well, that’s debatable._

And then: _You knew? Did you really? Because honestly, every second of today has been a surprise._

Shepard said he would be like this—intrigued, instead of alarmed. Lamb isn’t as easily frightened as the other townspeople—he harbours a macabre fascination for all things occult and unusual. He’ll trap a bookseller in a debate about demons for hours, if he can. (I would know; he’s done it to me. Twice.)

“The books,” I press. Perhaps I ought to attempt a conspiratorial air and appeal to his more dramatic side? I relax my face, allowing my eyebrows to do the talking. “Do you have any? I know you like to read widely.”

I let him lean in a mite closer than he needs to, stirring his drink with a metal spoon. (Bloody Mary. A gentleman’s weapon of choice.) “Oh, I do, _mon cœur_. But can you tell me why such things interest you?” He reaches out to touch the ribbon in my hair, but I’m already leaning back, feigning another sip of wine. I need to question him quickly—he’ll soon notice that the glass isn’t draining like his own. “Surely you need not worry over such matters. I know it’s been hard—your mother, your family moving away, how the town talks about you. It’s only natural you think about these things...but you must know, _chéri_ —you are _not_ cursed.”

It takes a minute to fully parse what he’s saying. _He thinks I need to uncurse_ myself? _Because Latour refused to believe a boy’s stories of teeth in the nighttime?_

“No, it’s not that...really, they’re right to shun me. I _was_ mad, wasn’t I? The doctor even gave me a certificate. There are no vampires in these parts, and if there were, they wouldn’t be haunting _me._ No, it’s just...it’s almost Hallows’ Eve.” I’m affecting insouciance, praying for the quiver to stay out of my voice. “I’ve monsters on the mind, I suppose. As you say, it’s only natural. This time of year is difficult.”

He accepts the lies on the surface, but the assessing look he gives suggests he’s far from convinced.

“You should drink.”

Lamb’s no fool. (Unfortunately.)

I pretend to take a sip.

“So...counter-curses?” he asks slowly. I nod, banging my teeth on the lip of the glass. “It’s difficult to know anything concrete without talking with the witch, wizard, or warlock responsible. Tell me, _Monsieur Pitch_ , where has this sudden interest sprung from? This morning, you seemed far from enamoured with things. You couldn’t wait to get away from me.”

Lamb isn’t part of the town’s Official Anti-Monster Pro-Active Project Planning Council (the OAMPAPPC, try saying that three-times fast after a glass of wine), but that doesn’t mean I can be flippant. _Only tell him what he needs to know._ I choose my words carefully.

“It seems to me we ought to practice these things. Prevention is fine, but what if someone _does_ get cursed on Hallowe’en? Monsters avoid Latour, given our town’s reputation, but shouldn’t we know how to resolve these things? Just in case a curse _does_ sneak through the gaps.”

I watch as he lifts his drink and tips his head back, draining the glass in one long, lurid mouthful.

_Interesting, what he said about witches and warlocks. Perhaps two booksellers and a talking dictionary couldn’t perform the counter-curse, anyway. It’d be pointless to waste time even reading about it._

“We _do_ know how to deal with such things,” he goes on. “If there’s a cursed creature running around Latour, we make it go away.”

I see it again, in hindsight—a flash of cold candlelight and moss-strewn stone.

Teeth in the dark, as bright as the moon.

_Two nights. Two nights are all a stranger has left._

He narrows his eyes. “Baz, you haven’t touched your wine. Aren't you thirsty?"

My already tenuous interest in Lamb’s library wears thin. Even if he _does_ have a useful text or two, what price must I pay to get my hands on it? He’ll never let me borrow his books. This was no sort of plan to embark upon—Shepard and I are better off taking the unruly dictionary back to the house and facing Simon ourselves.

“Sorry. It’s a bit early in the day for Merlot. And you’re right, of course—the council has always dealt with these matters best.” I try on a shy smile, though he might notice I’m dead behind the eyes. “Forgive my curiosity.” I make a move towards the edge of the bench, but he’s blocking my escape with a smirk on his lips.

“Now, did I give the impression I _didn’t_ have such literature?” he teases, nudging my foot with his own until I slide in what is very much the wrong direction. He sits down next to me, an arm draped across the back of the wood, fingers inching towards my shoulder. “There’s a lounge downstairs, _mon chéri_ —in the library. We could take the rest of the bottle and call up for a meal. No one would disturb us, and I can show you around whilst we wait for the food to cook.” As he speaks, I notice that his tongue is stained red. “All of my best antlers are downstairs. We’ll make an evening of it.”

I consider what a death like that might be like, deep in the spiralling cellars of the Kathèrine, and decide I’d rather not meet with it. I hear Shepard’s instructions in my head— _Baz, don’t let him take you to a secondary location! Stay by the bar where others can see you._

Lamb’s hand comes to rest on my leg.

Shepard isn’t going to come gambolling through a window to save me this time. I’m going to have to save myself.

And then I suppose I have to save Simon Snow.

“That sounds lovely _,_ but I’m afraid I must be going. Shepard’s cooking a—”

“Oh, but you can’t leave yet,” he slithers. Lamb makes a move on my wine, now that his own glass is empty. My head is full of him—the sharpness of the vintage, the sting of whatever gelatinous slop he slathers in his hair each morning. I taste the tang of his cologne in the back of my throat. (He always smells like cinnamon and spice, rolled in smoke.) “We’ve only just got you out of that bookshop, and you want to go back? _Non_ , I think you’ll stay for dinner. I assure you, my manners are impeccable.”

 _Manners,_ I think blankly. _Manners are the root cause of my problems today._

I glance up at the paintings, the antlers. I think about dinner in the dark.

Something sparks in the back of my skull, the makings of an undercooked idea—one that requires me to be thoroughly free of the innkeeper and his wandering hands. I mentally calculate the force and speed required to launch myself clear across the table without upending it.

“I can’t stay. In fact, I’ve just remembered there’s a rather demanding book I need to see to.”

Something hot burns across my leg—at first I think it’s Lamb, perhaps deciding that immolating me is the surest way to delay my departure. 

But then I remember the mirror.

I pull the searing square of glass from my trouser pocket, into the open—I’m barely able to hold it. There’s no smoke, but the tavern is hot with the sudden smell of burning.

 _“Qu'est-ce que c'est?_ What do you have there?”

I twist to keep the mirror out of Lamb’s grasping fingers. The glass should have misted over by now, surely—but there he is again. Simon, still pacing and monologuing without an audience. I don’t like how agitated he is, how upset—I want to reach into the glass to placate him, to say—

“Does that young man have _antlers?”_

Lamb’s face leers over my shoulder, and I almost fling the glass away in an effort to conceal it. (I slip it inside my shirt and hold it there instead, hot against my heartbeat.)

“Certainly not,” I hear myself splutter. My eyes flick up to the walls again. _They’re everywhere. Where does he get them all?_ “Antlers? It’s just a drawing. Yes, an illustration—from a book. A promising new author.”

Lamb’s eyes are hooded. It’s a wonder my will doesn’t collapse completely, with the way he looks at me.

“Is this something I should know about? I’ll hear of it if you’re keeping something from me, _mon cher_.”

His fingers tap along the stem of the wine glass, and I have a momentary vision of it snapping like a twig. _This is the last time,_ I think. _The last time he gets this close._

Then, before he can utter whatever slimy nonsense is itching to drip next from his mouth, I launch myself up and over the expanse of oak. I hear him gasp, hear the crack of glass as wine spills over what I hope was a _very_ expensive suit.

And then I hear my own name, shouted back at me with nothing less than utter violence.

“Basil, get back here! I’ve been patient with you. _Gracieux._ There is no one else in this town for you, do you hear me? They all think you’re mad!”

 _And whose fault is that_ , I think, making it to the inn’s door intact. My reconnaissance mission has been a stunning failure, but I _have_ learnt something important—manners do _not_ a man make. I hear a storm of feet and fury from behind, but Braden(!) the barkeeper unwittingly comes to my aid, screaming from across the room, _“The roast is burning, Monsieur Lamb! It’s an ill omen! There’ll be beasts on the prowl tonight!”_

_Oh, you have no idea._

Lamb falters in his pursuit to produce a soliloquy of _un_ impeccable expletives, and it’s the distraction I need to slip outside and go racing across the square, ribbon ripping free of my hair and tangling in the streamers criss-crossing overhead. I almost collide with an old woman as I weave between pedestrians, and—wait, is that _the_ walking stick?—crash against the bookshop’s locked doors, with all the weight of my gathered panic.

_The eyeliner. It’s the damnable eyeliner that ruined me._

I wait for a familiar voice to sound on the far side of the lock. “Hi there! What’s the password?”

I roll my eyes and place my palm flat against the frosted glass. _“The wheel is come full circle; I am here.”_

Shepard’s a committed fan of Shakespeare. Quote a bit of _King Lear_ and he’s apt to propose.

The door swings open and I hurry inside, slamming it shut to push the bolt home. I must look a sight when I turn—Shepard takes a step back, and Penny produces the dictionary definition of horrified laughter, shaking against her paperback.

“Baz, are you alright? What happened?”

Shepard finds a chair for me, because he’s a saint amongst booksellers.

 **“Did he show you his** **_bibliothèque?”_ **

“He buys us out of magickal books, but won’t let anyone read them,” Shepard agonises. “His library must be something else. I wish I could see it.”

_No, I don’t think you do._

I slump down, clutching the stitch in my side and waiting for it to pass. I’m half-convinced Lamb will appear here next, banging on the door and rambling on about burnt roasts—we need to move quickly, if we’re to move at all. (The last thing I want is for him to end up in a shouting match with Penny.) (Oh, how the synonyms would _fly._ )

“No, I did _not_ see his library. Though I very nearly sacrificed what little dignity I have to get down there.”

 **“Bad idea,”** Penny says sagely. **“It’s a good job you didn’t. Virgin sacrifices, this close to Hallowe’en? It wouldn’t end well.”**

I’m left spluttering as Shepard steers us back on course. “Lamb knows more about monsters than anyone. He could write the book on them, if someone hadn’t beaten him to it...so if even _he_ doesn’t have a book about counter-curses, it’s hopeless. We need to find another way.”

“Oh, I’ve no doubt he _does_ have such books,” I scowl, smudging eyeliner across my face. “But he’s not forthcoming.” (Well, he _is,_ but perhaps not in the way—) “Going there was a mistake; he already knows too much.” I hesitate. _Don’t mention the mirror. I don’t need fifty words for imbecile slicing through me._ “He _did_ give me an idea, though—a way we might trap Snow in a rapid game of manners from which he can’t escape. Not without at least a sliver of kindness.”

A customer knocks on the door and I almost jump out of my skin. I dash to the counter and hide behind Penny, as if the power of words alone might protect me. Shepard lets the customer down gently, asking the man to come back later to pick up his romance novels.

“What’s the plan?” he asks as he turns. Shepard needs his glasses—he knocks into every table and chair between the door and here—but he’s too polite to reclaim them. “Trick our man Simon into passing the salt?”

I smirk. _You very nearly read my mind._ “ _Peut-être._ Tell me, Bunce, you’ve shown that Snow’s manners are lacking...but does this extend to his table manners?”

 **“Oh, yes,”** she flutters. **“Awful in every sense of the word** — **both modern and archaic. Let’s put it this way** — **the plate is but an easel for his marauding tongue.”**

 _No_ , _let’s_ not _put it that way._

The idea seems to have ignited something within the depths of her adverbs, however. Penelope Bunce is a dictionary inspired.

**“You’d be our first guests since the witch...the first since his cursing. A chance to set things right with other strangers on the road. Poetic, don’t you think? Just the sort of thing you’d find in a fairy tale. Granted...there isn’t much in the way of furniture left, but there’s a decent patio set behind the house, if he hasn’t got to smashing it. We could have dinner together and see how he behaves.”**

It’s a wafer-thin plan, but it might have to do. I’m eager to get Penny out of Latour before the festival kicks off in earnest—and the afternoon’s preparations provide the perfect opportunity for us to lock up shop and sneak away without resistance.

“Shepard, would you deal with the customer outside and see if you can coax a few ingredients from Madame Possibelf? I’ll see what I can do for cutlery.” My assumption is that any such civilities would have long been lost, in Snow’s domain. Penny rests atop the counter, barking orders and helpful recipes as we prepare, light shirts and new shoes swapped out for hardier fare in case the road turns cold later.

Within the hour, we have enough food wrapped in a sheet to assemble a simple meal for four. (Penny insists she be waited on, though there’s no way for her to eat, that I can see.) (When I point this out she informs me that I’ll be _eating my words, before long_.) Shepard locks the door, placing a handwritten sign in the window that instructs the populace to _HAVE A GREAT EVENING, FOLKS! STAY SPOOKY! FROM YOUR FRIENDS AT QUELGUÉ BOOKS._

“Are we ready?” I ask, tapping the dictionary’s cover. (I agreed to carry the vegetables if Shepard agreed to bear Penny’s viciousness. He was more than happy to oblige.)

“Ready!” he says cheerfully.

**“If nothing else, Simon will be ready to eat. He’s been licking old yoghurt out of the sink for days.”**

I try to eject _that_ unpleasant image from my mind as we go, moving against the flow as chattering neighbours and shopkeepers and strangers head into town, excited for the festivities. We’re excited ourselves—there’s a hum passing between us, the silent anticipation of a long road ahead. Shepard’s thrilled to be meeting his first genuine curse victim, Penny’s somewhat enthusiastic about saving her friend, and _I’m_ excited to be out of sight of the Kathèrine, its sign casting shadows behind me.

It’s good that I didn’t tell Lamb about the enchanted candle, or about Snow. That wouldn’t end well.

I tell Shepard and Bunce about the smoke that’s been following me around all day, but they shrug it off as nerves. I decide to do the same, making light of my gathering dread as we walk, trying to remember the way to the house at the edge of nowhere. (In the end, I suggest we go hopping over garden fences until we find the one that brings us nearest.)

“Is there a prisoner clause in all this?” Shepard asks, doing quick maths on his fingers. “Because if I can’t open the shop tomorrow, we stand to lose a lot of sales.”

“No prisoner clause,” I assure him. “He let me go earlier. We just can’t tell anyone where he is.”

I don’t look back towards the square as we leave, which is careless of me, because it means I miss the sun at its glorious peak as it shines over thatched rooftops. It kisses the gables and spires of Latour, leaves spiralling from the trees surrounding.

I _should_ look back, because if I did, I might see a shadowy figure stepping from behind a cracked door, murder afire in his dull blue eyes. If I looked closer, I might recognise those eyes and the flash of auburn that falls into step behind us, a silken suit stained red with careless wine.

I might see that it’s Lamb who follows us to the edge of town, and watches us struggle over a garden fence.

I might see that he hesitates for a moment before following, and I might hear his footsteps on the path behind us, as we seek the secret turning to take us deeper into the woods.

At the fork in the road I look for the wildflowers, fingers closed around the glass in my pocket. (Shepard’s verdict: _“Wow! Every single one of these flowers is out of season. Do these even_ grow _in France? I love it.”_ )

I still don’t look back.

If I did, I might see Lamb there and know it’s a bad idea, letting him learn of Simon Snow’s predicament.

But I don’t see. I don’t see the man behind me. I’m too preoccupied with the thought of the monster in the doorway, and my quiet excitement at seeing him again. At knowing who he is.

And so, I lead Lamb right to the wolf’s door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _milles excuses_ \- a thousand apologies  
>  _bien sûr_ \- of course  
>  _père_ , _grand-père_ \- father, grandfather  
>  _qu'est-ce que c'est?_ \- what is it/that?  
>  _mon cher_ \- my dear  
>  _gracieux_ \- gracious  
>  _la bibliothèque_ \- library  
>  _peut-être_ \- perhaps
> 
>  _“The wheel is come full circle; I am here.”_ \- Shakespeare, _King Lear_ , 1605-1606. (Act 5, Scene 3.)


	5. a battle of manners

The house is quiet when we arrive. From the outside, with the front door dappled in sunshine, you’d almost think it pleasant. Unfortunately, I remember well the carnage that lurks within.

I squeeze Shepard’s arm and walk ahead of him, looking up at grim-faced gargoyles. _One day, that turret is going to topple right off the roof._

“Interesting place,” Shepard says. “Your classic mysterious-cottage-deep-in-the-forest scenario. They were right not to go with a castle—there’s not a lot of room between the trees. How have I not noticed this house before?”

“Well, we had to wade through ten miles of lavender to find it. It likely doesn’t want to be seen,” I reply.

The dictionary is like me—unnerved by the quiet. **“Surely he’s asleep,”** Bunce muses. **“But he usually snores his head off. It’s like living with an opinionated tractor.”**

Even though the walls and bricks are restful, something feels uneasy. Was it like this in the morning, when I strolled through with a sales pitch tripping off my tongue? I don’t _think_ so. I had no idea what I was walking into, but if it had felt like _this_ , I would have noticed. I would have sensed that something was wrong.

 _But you did_. _You did sense something. Weren’t your feet trying to take you back the other way, and you wouldn’t listen? All those wildflowers. You just had to follow._

Inside I found smoke, heat, and rising walls— _La magie_ , threatening to explode.

My fingers squeeze around the glass in my pocket; the mirror has cooled since leaving the tavern. _If I look for him now, what will I see?_

I dampen my doubts and beckon Shepard forwards, leaning on the unlatched front door. It’s just as it was earlier: ajar and thoroughly hostile. We step inside together, peering around at rubble and detritus, and I close it gently behind us.

“Cosy,” Shepard says, without a hint of sarcasm. “It needs a coat of paint and a few hours lost to tidying, but I bet it’d look great. A nice getaway from town. Just think how great it’d be, standing in the door and welcoming your guests: _Come on in, everyone’s welcome here!”_

His enthusiasm echoes off the walls. I can’t _see_ Bunce’s eye roll, but I can feel it.

**“Take me into the kitchen and put me down by the teapot, before I test out my latest theory of paper cuts.”**

“There’s a teapot? Great! I think we’re all in need of a drink after that trek.”

Shepard admits he has no clue where the kitchen is, but announces that he’s happy to track it down, and goes wandering off through unexplored rooms to the left. ( _“Oh look, a ballroom! That’s unexpected. From the outside, you wouldn’t think there’s enough space.”)_ I step through the archway Snow blockaded this morning, my mind set on a reunion with a curious candle. I tried to explain the cold flame to Shepard, but it’s something he’ll have to pass a hand over to believe. 

Everything is as it was. _Furniture broken, nothing makes sense._ I take the time to examine the room in a way I couldn’t this morning; the wallpaper is gouged with scratch marks, the room bereft of personal touches such as photographs, paintings, trinkets. (No antlers, praise the architects.) Also, there’s no hunched-up demon in the doorway screaming at me to leave. Otherwise, all feels as it was and as I left it—Snow clearly didn’t have a change of heart regarding cleaning, in my absence.

I crunch over broken objects, unrecognisable in their death throes. There are no wildflower teacups, and no candles. Perhaps Snow carries it around the house with him as a sad reminder of what he’s become? Or perhaps he’s protecting it. Ensuring the magickal flame doesn’t flicker out when left unattended.

The kitchen sits empty at the far end of the living room, warm and bright and horrifically unhygienic. I realise I’m tiptoeing as I make slow, nervous progress across the carpet, afraid to take strides in case it upsets the house’s delicate balance. _Does he know we’re here? Is he listening in?_ I can hear Shepard tramping about on the stairs, chatting amiably with Penny. _Surely even the surliest demon can’t sleep through such zeal._

Another noticeable absence—there’s no smoke in the air. I breathe deeply. (And immediately regret it—that yoghurt is a week past common decency, at best.)

The house’s back door is relatively intact—there’s a jagged crack in the panel of glass, but otherwise it clings to its hinges, locked against the world. (A flimsy pretence of security, given the front door stands open at all hours for any aimless bookseller to wander in.) I twist the lock and let it swing open onto sunshine, Bunce’s promised patio set radiant with stray bird droppings.

_Lovely. A venue fit for a royally awkward dinner._

Part of me knows how ludicrous it is, this little _soirée_ of ours. To have hope at all seems a worthless thing, but it’s there, unfurling within me like a familiar pattern.

_It could work. If he tries to be his best self, it could be what he needs._

I don’t know _why_ I want to help Snow...not exactly. But it feels important that I do. There must be more to it than him being handsome, beneath the scales—if that were my only impetus in life, I’d be trapped forever reading _Doctor_ _Faustus_ , swooning over Mephistopheles. (I’m _not_ habitually attracted to demons.) (Just two of them, apparently.)

“The bloody fuck do _you_ want?”

Ah. Speak of the devil and he appears.

(Literally. You don’t get much more devilish than this.)

Simon is standing with his back against the brick wall, a small saw in hand, the strange candle alive and well in its teacup. He seems to have acquired slightly more clothing in the hours since before and now. (And hair—golden, coarse and curling, with burnt ends.) Tattered pyjama trousers hang around his hips, the shreds of a shirt clinging to his arms like a concept. It’s as if he knew we were coming and made an effort.

He’s still a complete mess. A toppled cart of apples, a spilt glass of wine.

Simon Snow is the winged poster boy for tragedy.

“Snow,” I breathe, lowering my load of ingredients to the leaf-strewn table. “Hello again. I was here earlier, and then I wasn’t.”

He flinches at the sound of his name, like I’ve slapped him. His eyes drag over me slowly—his face is currently reasonably free of the curse; I can count his freckles, like a paint splatter across tanned cheeks. There are, however, two additional horns curling out of his head that I’m fairly sure were not there this morning. (Lamb was right. Antlers.)

There’s also the matter of the wings strewn over the paving. Large, red, leathery, and decidedly unattached to his body.

“You. You were here before.” A pause. “Are you wearing eyeliner?”

I wipe at my face. “No. _Yes._ Irrelevant.”

“I told you to leave.” 

His voice is a rasp, a warning. It seems wise to make it clear that I’m not here to harm him, so I raise my hands in the air, palms out. The hope is that seeing me thus exposed, he’ll put that bloody saw down without mauling anybody with it. (Himself included.)

“I _was_ here before. I’m a bookseller—my name is Baz.” I’m aware of sounds emanating from the house behind us, and I can only hope it’s Shepard, having grasped the unlikelihood of kitchens being located upstairs. “Do you think you could put that potentially murderous weapon down? _Doucement._ I don’t want any limbs to go flying.”

He startles at the sight of the saw in his hands. (I try not to look too closely. If there’s anything that’ll put a man off his dinner, it’s bad prose and bloody blades.) “Oh. Right. Yeah.” He lowers the tool to the ground, coming to rest atop one of the (his?) wings. He straightens, blinks at me through a mess of blackened, bronze curls, and asks, “Why did you come back? You’re not my prisoner. None of that funny business going on around here.”

“I know.” And I’m steeling myself to tell him about our increasingly shaky plan, trying not to make eye contact with the arcing spikes protruding from his arms, when our local friendly bookseller pops his head through the back door. There’s a fractious dictionary held against his chest, protesting her treatment.

 **“Simon, he tried to** **_waltz_ ** **with me in the ballroom! I want him tossed out in the streets.”**

“Hi there! I’m Shepard. Are you Simon? You’re looking great!”

From anyone else it would be disingenuous, but from Shepard it’s sincere. Snow is shocked enough to accept an outstretched hand, and the two of them become trapped in a daring game of _who can keep the handshake going longest._ (Shepard wins.) I watch the shimmer of scales and scars blur along Snow’s arm as it flexes. His ears stretch back into points, antlers curling into themselves.

_Will a handshake be enough? Surely even common courtesies are considered a kindness._

The curse doesn’t break, and Simon takes it in his stride.

“Told you not to tell anyone,” he growls at me.

I’ve prepared myself for this: “Shepard’s the least judgmental person I know, and he’s relentless at problem-solving. He’s here to help you.”

Snow’s beastly, but I don’t think he’s a monster. Not underneath. He retrieves his hand from the depths of Shepard’s shining personality and stares at me. The curse has given his eyes narrow slits like a cat, and he assesses me through them, focusing on my nose. I’m self-conscious enough to cover it, though the story behind it really isn’t much—I had the displeasure of witnessing a disagreement between gravity and a volume of Hans Christian Andersen a few years ago.

**“If he hasn’t already introduced himself, the frowny man with the crooked nose is Baz.”**

Snow shifts from foot to foot, trying to kick the wings away. “Yeah, I know.”

**“And what do we say to that?”**

“Um, well,” he mumbles, holding up what I would carefully describe as a paw. (I take it.) (It’s disconcertingly warm.) “Hello. I’m Si. Mon. Simon. There’s nothing wrong with your fucking nose.”

“Yes, well,” I gape, already floundering. _Since when was_ my _face the point of concern?_ And then, because awkward silences are _not_ my forte, “I like your antlers. All of it, really...all of...you? _Your_ nose.”

Snow bristles, mortally confused, and I’m all too aware that the saw remains within reach. Penny, perhaps sensing the rising odds of a disturbance, flaps her pages.

 **“Honestly, can’t you take a sincere antler-related compliment?** **These suspiciously helpful salesmen are here to have dinner with us. Be a dear and light the oven, will you? If the usual methods fail, you could use a bit of that hellfire and brimstone you’ve been fermenting.”**

I’m worried there’s a gale of destruction oncoming, but the dictionary remains calm, so I try to do the same. Instead of shouting and swearing, Snow goes stomping into the kitchen, giving us all a glimpse of the mess he’s made between his shoulders.

“He cut them off. He actually did it,” I mutter, staring at the shrivelled wings on the floor. They’re sinking into the paving stones, no longer solid. Soon they’ll be gone completely. _C’est terrible. That’s_ —

 **“Don’t worry, they’ll be back tomorrow; it doesn’t hurt him. Sometimes there’s a tail, too. He’s proving a point to himself, and there’s no talking him out of it.”** Shepard places Penny on the table and begins gathering shabby-looking chairs in anticipation of what’s sure to be a lively meal. **“You might have to check that he lit the fire properly; he gets distracted by the sink. Possibly because it’s shiny?”**

“We won’t need a fire,” I say numbly. “We’re having sandwiches. Cold things on plates. It seemed safer.”

 **“You might check he** **_didn’t_ ** **then, so the house doesn’t burn down. He’ll probably go upstairs and sulk, which should make things easier** — **he’s about due for a lengthy lament. I tell you what, you can’t get much done with a depressed demon hanging around.”**

Surreal. Everything’s just so _strange_ , all of a sudden—this morning I stepped out to inflict self-help guides upon the masses, and now I’m listening to a cursed half-devil kick himself up the stairs.

Shepard carries the food into the kitchen, and I almost suffer heart failure trying to cope with the carnage. (I twist my hair into a bun, to show the universe I mean business.) We slip into a salvageable routine, with Shepard chopping and slicing as I clean my way into different cupboards and drawers, locating the house’s few remaining utensils. Penny dishes out commands from outside, and though it’s far from spectacular (and _very_ questionable in terms of hygiene), we soon have a serviceable meal on the patio table. Bread, salad, cheese, fruit, slices of honey-roasted ham...it’s hardly high cuisine, but if Snow has been living off licked yoghurt and chicken scraps for the past few weeks, he ought to be delighted.

“Is it enough?” I fret. “Are top-ranked witches appeased by this sort of thing, or should we have brought dessert?”

“This is what they always eat in fantasy novels,” Shepard assures me. “It’s situationally appropriate.”

I dither at the bottom of the stairs as Penny calls for Simon. The front door’s ajar—didn’t I close that earlier?—so I push it shut. Something in the darkened room to my left falls over, though there’s no time to investigate. _No doubt all manner of wildlife has made itself at home in these halls. Best to concern myself with the singular creature before me._

“Snow, are you coming down? I hear you like bread. Bunce said you’d be happy to hear that there’s a plethora of baguettes.”

 _“I’m not coming down,”_ comes the snapping growl. _“I look fucking stupid.”_

 **“Simon Snow, did you not hear our guests? Dinner is** **_ready!_ ** **Get down here and stop being a nuisance.** **_Ungrateful_** — **would you like to hear a selection of synonyms?”**

I place a foot on the bottom step, craning my neck to see around the first bend. I’m not brave enough to go up, and I’m glad he doesn’t make me—two hooked, hairy feet appear from the shadows, with the rest of him attached. His time spent moping wasn’t entirely unproductive—he’s done his best to wrestle a shirt over his shoulders, cuffs trailing laces, and if it weren’t for the horns he might look dashing. (Or close to it.) A comb has been dragged through his hair, there’s colour in his cheeks, fabric knotted around his neck...and my breath catches, because apparently everything about this is appealing to me.

_Oh. There you are._

“I’m ready,” he mumbles, cat eyes cutting through me. “I don’t look good.”

“You do,” I breathe, reaching to rescue his cravat. He watches my hands shake as they move, adjusting the tumble of lace around his neck until it's somewhat proper.

"Thanks," he mutters, smoothing it with his palm so as not to catch it with a claw. "No fucking clue how to tie these things."

"It's lovely," I murmur. My hand hovers over his for a moment before I catch myself. Something clatters to my left, but I can’t look away. “You are...acceptably dressed for a dinner party.”

“Is it cold outside?” he grumbles, forcing me to step back. He moves past me, knocking into the damaged umbrella stand as he lurches into the living room. “I hate the cold. Do I need to fuck up a jumper?”

“It’s pleasant,” I gasp, watching the black marks on the back of his shirt as they spread, old blood from wounds not yet knit together. “It’s not cold at all. You’ll be fine.”

He snorts at me—reedy wisps of steam, nothing immediately hazardous—and crashes through the wreckage to the back door, where Penny and Shepard have launched into a duet of questionable content. Something about guests and napkins and dancing silverware; I recognise it from the Hallows’ Eve celebrations. (The people of Latour _do_ love a whimsical singalong.)

_If the plates get up and start dancing, I am leaving._

We’ve decided not to inform Snow directly of the plan. The curse might require him to produce a selfless act of kindness, and it could fail if he forces himself into something, as with the handshakes. We’re hoping that a casual meal between demon, book, and booksellers will bring out the best in him. Or at the very least the... _not completely awful_ in him.

He stares at the table and I catch it in the air—smoke, a stirring of bad magic. If only we had a bottle of pungent cologne to drown him in. (Not like Lamb’s cologne—it’s anathema for the nostrils. Maybe something floral.)

 **“Sit down,”** Penny says, propped against a water pitcher. **“It’ll be good to do something civilised. I don’t think you’ve seen a vegetable in weeks.”**

Snow doesn’t respond. I see that Shepard has decorated every available inch of tablecloth with unmagickal candles, which is bound to make reaching for the dressing a trial. In the centre of the table sits the enchanted candle, which I notice with a pang is a good half-inch shorter than it was this morning.

_Time. It’s going._

_Time now for all those books about etiquette to be put to good use._

I pull out a chair and signal that he should occupy it, which seems to perplex him more than anything. (He _does_ sit down. Eventually.) I sit across from him with Shepard to my right. Penny, determined to fulfill her delusions of eating a tangible meal, is on my left.

 **“There are only so many ways to describe this,”** she says wistfully to her plate of wilted lettuce. **“And none of the words are good.”**

“I hate vegetables,” Snow grumbles, stabbing at an unpeeled carrot. I suffer a vivid image of him bending his head to the table, his antlers repurposed as demonic brochettes. He tries to lap at a ramekin of vinegar, and I hide my face in my hands.

 **_“Somebody do something,”_ ** Bunce whispers. **_“He’s trying to drink the condiments.”_ **

“Simon, here,” I say, scrabbling for dishes. The nerves around the table are almost edible. Bunce ought to be conducting affairs, seeing as she _is_ his only friend in life, but her lack of hands are an obstacle. “You like bread, yes? Bunce informed us of your preferences. And cheese? _Un sandwich au fromage._ We can make you one. It needn’t be complicated. _”_

He tries to smile. (I _think_ that’s what is happening to his face. It’s hard to say.) He chooses a baguette and glances at me before sighing.

We sit with baited breath as Snow butchers bread with a marauding claw, ripping it down the middle and stuffing it with half a cow’s worth of cheese. He jams the crumbling monument to poor taste into his mouth, mashing it to an ooze with his fangs. (No vinegar. There’s probably plenty still coating his teeth.) Half of the cheese drops to the table, the other half ends up in his hair. (Facial, thankfully.)

It’s a spectacle, there’s no doubt about it—and it’s making the table shimmer with whatever minor, brooding magic is building within him. I glance at Shepard, who nods encouragingly.

_Let’s try. Be kind to each other and find a way through this._

“Snow,” I say quietly, clearing my throat. I’ve no sort of appetite, but an effort is required. “Sorry— _Simon_. Please could you pass the, um...well, the ham? That will do.”

With his cheese sandwich gripped in one hand, he shoves a plate across the table towards me, candles scattering in all directions. (I just about save the tablecloth from disaster.)

“Wannafork?” he growls.

 _“Excusez-moi?”_ I gasp.

_So much for a game of manners._

“Fork,” he says, prodding the maligned cutlery. He manages to lift one with his talons, dangling it in front of my nose. “Want one? You can have my knife, too. I can just use my butter claw.”

“Your _what?_ ”

“For the butter,” he says, dangling an unwelcome appendage over the innocent dish. “I’ve got claws today.”

I stare at my plate of fruit and salad. “I don’t really need a fork. Or a knife. Sorry. That’s kind of you, though. That’s...”

He looks crushed. _Oh, damn it all._ I lean across the table, nearly toppling half a dozen candles in my rush to prevent his retreat. I stab at apple slices with the fork and try to catch his eye, to show my appreciation; he scowls at the carrots, mauling another piece of bread with his malevolent incisors.

This won’t see the curse broken; if anything, it’ll make it worse. _A double cursing for you._ I raise an eyebrow at Penny and hope she’s capable of interpreting body language.

 **“Simon, dear,”** she begins, as if addressing a child. (Or a patient.) **“Why don’t you tell Baz about our travels before we reached Latour? The things we’ve seen?”**

The part of Snow that had wanted to try has crawled back within its hole. He tears chunks of bread with his many teeth, chewing loudly and saying nothing.

We eat in uncomfortable silence for some time, my eyes straying to the dying candle more often than they ought. Does it burn more quickly if his mood turns torrid? Is this curse’s condition purely a time constraint, or are there other factors at play? The air is still shimmering, though eating seems to help Snow with his self-containment—he lunges for another baguette, assaulting it with whatever’s closest to hand before leading it to a glum end at the back of his throat. (I still don't believe he’s a monster, though the way he works his jaw _is_ nothing short of barbarous.)

Perhaps conversation would help him to relax, but I’m rubbish at this sort of thing—I like talking to the books when shelving them, but that’s about it. I toil for something appropriate to say, and find my head empty.

_You can’t mention the bloodied wings. Or the chicken carcass._

_It’s probably best not to bring up anything related to the witch. Or yoghurt. Definitely don’t mention the yoghurt._

_What does that leave?_

I know nothing about him, other than the state of his manners. And so when I open my mouth to force a bit of chatter, nothing comes out. (It’s not one of my finer moments, sitting here with my jaw hanging over the butter dish.) Shepard springs into action on my behalf, sensing another classic _Baz is trapped in an awkward social situation and requires a heroic rescue_ dilemma.

“So Simon, you came out here to see the Hallows’ Eve festival, right? Want me to bring you a few toffee apples tomorrow? My treat!”

It might be the mention of Hallowe’en and Snow’s upcoming personal deadline that does it, or it might be Shepard’s kind offer—made, no doubt, in the hopes of prompting him into a kindness of his own. Either way, the words are enough to send Snow over the edge and into oblivion. He sobs into the remains of his second sandwich, great heaving cries that extinguish several candles and send the salt shaker flying. I instinctively dive for the wildflower teacup, lifting it clear of the oncoming storm.

 **“Don’t get upset, you great furry idiot. We’re here to help you**. **”**

“There’s no helping me,” he groans. “I’m a fucking disaster, aren’t I? And I deserve it, Pen. I did this to myself.” He tosses the crusty end of a baguette over his shoulder, and I’m growing increasingly concerned that the rest of the table will follow. The remaining candles go dancing off the end of the tablecloth, and the plates of meat and vegetables begin to creak and groan, as if they might crumble alongside him.

 **“It’s not ideal, but we’re going to solve this. Together. It’s not going to go away if you don’t** **_try_** **, Simon** — **lying on the sofa won’t get us anywhere. You need to** **_try._ ** **Shepard and Baz are** — **”**

“Prats, that’s what they are. They should leave while they can.” He growls, looking at me in despair. I don’t see any anger there—not really. He’s just so _lost._ “And I _am_ trying. Get out, while there’s enough human left in me to hold back.”

His face is twisting, the creature taking over. Plates go flying above our heads, dancing in all directions, their contents splattered across the grass. I raise my hands in an attempt to console, but Snow goes toppling over his chair, snapping and snarling at the air around us, his magic continuing to stew out of control.

 **“You should leave,”** Penny says quickly, **“Before one of you gets turned into a talking candlestick, or something equally droll.”**

 _But we haven’t had our dinner party,_ I think pathetically.

A window is shattered by the force of a rogue ladle, and I give up all pretence that the plan might work. Pained to leave Snow in such a state, I take hold of Shepard’s sleeve and usher him towards the back door. I’ve still got the teacup in my hand, and I want to keep it safe from an early extinguishing. We clamber through the house’s dismantled interior in our haste to reach the forest path.

“Not the best start,” Shepard says, as he helps me over the remains of the settee. “But he seems nice enough. Dresses well.”

Penny’s shouting at us from the patio, but we can’t hear—Shepard and I drag each other through the archway into the hall, and I’m considering where best to safely stow Snow’s candle when a hand darts out from nowhere and snatches the teacup away from me.

_The front door. I closed it, I did._

But it stands open to the elements, a slash of unwanted light.

_Noises in the dark, a stranger knocking things over._

For a moment I’m a boy again, chased by sharp white teeth. _He lost his mother too young, that’s his problem. Seeing things in the night like a mad thing._

But then my eyes trail along a pale, elegant wrist wrapped in cornflower blue. I recognise ugly red stains marring the pristine fabric; my own contribution, made so recently.

_Lamb. He followed us here._

_“Mes chers amis,_ ” comes a silken voice, as Latour’s _Top Businessman of This Year and Last_ steps from the dark into the dim light of the house. His face is a study in cruel victory. “Would you tell me why you’re out here, bookshop locked and shuttered, when there’s such _profit_ to be had in town?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _la magie_ \- magic  
>  _doucement_ \- gently/slowly  
>  _c'est terrible_ \- that's/it's terrible  
>  _un sandwich au fromage_ \- a cheese sandwich  
>  _excusez-moi?_ \- pardon/excuse me?  
>  _mes chers amis_ \- my dear friends
> 
>  _The Tragical History of the Life and Death of Doctor Faustus_ \- a tragedy by Christopher Marlowe, 1589-1592.


	6. a skirmish of tea

We stand in the dark of the red house’s hallway, a circle of hesitation.

Lamb, who followed us through a sea of flowers from Latour, stands holding a stolen teacup, awaiting an explanation that is not immediately available.

 _What is there to tell him,_ I think, _except another undulant lie?_

“Well?” he asks again, half a smirk teasing his lips. “Won’t one of you speak? Usually with you, Shepard, I cannot get a word in edgeways. _Merci_ _pour les cartes d'Amérique_ , by the way.”

Neither of us reply. Behind us, Penny has stopped shouting for attention. _Good. That’s good. He’d have you bound in his library before you can say_ **alas, ‘tis but an unforeseen grievance** _._

“If you don’t tell me, I’m going to have to _assume_ ,” he says unpleasantly, looking between us. “I’ll be led to believe that—” His threat ends abruptly, breath coming now in paper-thin gasps. I can only dread the reason why.

Shepard springs to life and tosses out a generic compliment about the cut of his suit— _hey, is that La Forêt? I love their pyjamas!_ —and the resulting exchange of stilted, obligatory pleasantries gives me a chance to look over my shoulder and confirm my worst fears.

Snow is there clogging up the archway, for all the world a whirl of fury. (Behind him, I see Bunce adrift on the ruined sofa.) The magic’s making mincemeat of his features, contorting them into something otherworldly— _red, scale, spike, hair, skin_ —if he could _breathe_ he might return to a less ghastly state, and we’d talk our way out of this.

But he’s looking at Lamb, and Lamb’s looking at him. It’s hate at first sight, I don’t doubt—and though I’d pick Lamb to win in a battle of wits, it isn’t shaping up to be that sort of confrontation.

 _“Put that down!”_ Snow roars, eyes on his candle. If he bent his head and started pawing at the floorboards, infuriated by blue in place of red, I wouldn’t be surprised. His eyes are flint in the dark, fixed on the flame Lamb is hopelessly fixated by, passing his hand over a dancing wick that doesn’t burn.

“Well, would you look at that?” Shepard says, touching it tentatively. “Amazing. It’s ice cold! Also, Monsieur Lamb—it isn’t yours, so maybe you should give it back?”

Wherever Lamb has been transported to, it’s far from a land of reason. His eyes flit between the three of us, drinking it in. Deciding where to unleash his displeasure first. When he finally stops ruminating, it’s me he turns upon.

 _“This?”_ he spits, holding the teacup in front of his face. He’s not being very careful—it might tip out of his hand. “This is where you go, after your flimsy excuses? This is what you choose over _me?_ A rat-hole of a house with a monster inside...oh, what the council would make of _this_.”

Simon is positively burning up behind me, slumped in the archway. “Smoke,” he mutters. “Can you smell that?”

 _Yes. I can._ I frown, but there’s no time to consider it further. Shepard, ever one to look on the bright side, spectacularly misses the point as he attempts to diffuse the situation.

“A monster? _Him?_ No, that’s Simon. He’s completely normal. Have you two met?”

Hands like iron close over my arms. (Hairy, heavy.) And then I’m being lifted out of the way, flung against the stairs leading up into mystery. Simon shoves Shepard through the archway into the living room—and then it’s just him and Lamb, facing off across an obscure hallway.

_This isn’t good._

The candle, jostled to and fro.

_This isn’t good at all._

“Give it back. It’s not yours.” Simon takes three staggering steps, saliva dripping from his fangs, which extend now over his lips to leave scratches around his mouth. “What’s with this bloody town? Everyone seems to think they can barge into a bloke’s house whenever they like!”

 _“J'étais invité_ ,” comes Lamb’s calm reply. “An invitation, plain as day. I heard the bookseller calling— _everyone is welcome here._ I’ve had a good look around, and I must say, this house is far from _civil_. _”_

“Bollocks to that!”

Lamb’s expression is caught between extreme intrigue and disgust. He takes a lace handkerchief from a pocket to cover his mouth, and squints at his assailant. I am treated to another of his lingering looks of disdain.

 _“Mon dieu,_ this is what you settle for? I assume this is the creature you were carrying a silhouette of, in your pocket. The reason you came to the tavern, begging a favour."

I close my eyes, too embarrassed to see Snow’s reaction. I’m sure he knows about Penny’s magic mirror—and who now is in possession of it.

“It’s not...there was never any _settlement._ And no silhouettes or _begging_ , for that matter. It was only a drawing that you saw, of somebody who is absolutely not—”

“No need to make excuses, Basil. But know that you _can_ do better than a deformity.”

He’s about ready to suffer his _own_ deformity, judging by the look on Snow’s face. I feel the floor shift beneath our feet, the house’s rickety walls shaking and groaning. Whatever spells fly out of him, they won’t be kind—we know that much. I make a dive for Snow, hoping to take him down before damage can be done. I grab his waist and bring him to his knees, desperate to keep fingers away from fangs. Above me, Shepard steps into the fray once more.

“Monsieur Lamb, this is all just a big misunderstanding. Like I said, this is Simon—he’s one of the performers for the festival. That’s his big trick you’re holding in your hands—isn’t that great? Cold fire! We came out here to check out his costume for tomorrow. It’s pretty convincing! He’s new to town, and doesn’t know the way to the square by himself...I don’t know, these rentals in the woods just aren’t what they used to be, if you ask me.”

Lamb is flabbergasted, the precious teacup shaking perilously in his hands. I’m still very much on the floor, lying on top of a dumbfounded demon, and I ought to rectify that. I find my feet and pull Snow up after me, horns and all. Before I let go, I squeeze his fingers in an intended display of solidarity. He squeezes back.

Shepard closes the space between himself and the innkeeper and gently retrieves the candle, passing it to me without a word.

“I have a tavern,” Lamb says distractedly. (The ability of a Latour businessman to slip naturally into sales when in a crisis will never cease to amaze me.) “With rooms above it. Festival performers get a discount.”

“I know, but hasn’t the Kathèrine been booked up for months? Simon said he couldn’t get a room—but this place was a steal! Come on, let’s drink some tea—we were on our way back to town ourselves. When you’re feeling yourself, we’ll walk with you.”

Lamb allows himself to be led, still staring at Simon with no shortage of bewilderment. “Tea. Antlers. Yes. _Très bien._ ”

I have a sudden, disturbing vision of Snow’s head, mounted above the Kathèrine’s bar. _Or maybe he’d make the special collection, downstairs._

“I agree, tea sounds great. Oh, and are you all set for self-help books this year? We just got some new titles in today!”

I marvel at the back of Shepard’s head as he leads our imminent threat through the archway and into the kitchen. If Lamb has any opinions about the decor, he keeps them to himself—Shepard jabbers on endlessly about _additional discounts!_ and _two for ten francs!_ and _hardback or paperback, we’ve got what you need!_

I don’t miss the look Lamb casts over his shoulder as he goes, a level of scrutiny Simon will be left reeling from for days. (If he lives that long.)

“Simon Snow...was there such a name in the booking charts? No.. _.peut être pas_...”

“Who _is_ that?” Snow asks, as the house stills around us. His magic calms with his breathing, his pulse no longer racing for destinations unknown. “Bit bloody gullible, isn’t he? Also, way too overdressed.”

I answer honestly. “Lamb. He’s a dangerous man.” _One whom I hope stays far, far away from you._ “I didn’t know he followed us here. I’m sorry.”

Snow swallows, and I find myself intensely interested in the movement of his throat. I hold up the teacup, the candle still working away at itself, on its way to an inevitable end. I trace the flowers with a finger.

“S’not your fault.” His own fingers, hooked and bony, slide across the porcelain, grazing my own. When he realises he’s found my thumb and not the cup’s handle, he jumps back. (If there were any actual tea in the cup, it would have gone everywhere. Instead, hot wax splatters my wrist.) “Sorry, I—”

“It’s alright,” I say quickly. The antlers are a bit much, I’ll admit, but if you imagine his skull without them, he’s...human. So very human. _“I'm_ sorry—dinner was a fiasco. We ought to have brought more than sandwiches. And tea...well, I daresay this is going to be an ordeal.” I half-listen to Shepard and Lamb’s conversation on the patio, reviewing the latest books and finest beers and all things Hallows’ Eve. From behind Snow, I hear the wayward wail of a forgotten dictionary.

**“What’s going on? Somebody come and collect me, right this second! I am not some cheap mass market edition to be disposed of so easily!”**

“S’pose I’d better shut her up,” Snow mumbles, rubbing the back of his neck. His hand flattens the curls there—I can see new bronze, shining through at the roots. “Tell your mate thanks for covering for me. And, Baz...cheers. Although your friend in blue’s a bit of an arse.”

“I assure you, he’s not my friend.”

“But he came here for you, yeah?” A pause, a glance down. “And you’re leaving with him?”

The atmosphere is taking another turn, and for the umpteenth time today, I smell smoke. It fills the space between us, hot and demanding.

“Snow, calm down. It’s not—I didn’t _know_ —”

“No, it’s fine. It’s good. You don’t need to explain.” Hesitation. (Rumination?) “But I don’t want him in the house.”

He’s sad about something I can’t quite see. _What would the self-help guides recommend for this?_

“I’ll get rid of him immediately. I’m sure Shepard’s already working on it.”

His lips pull back and I see far more demonic gum than I need to. “He’s going to tell everyone that I’m here. For fuck’s sake.”

“I’m sure Shepard’s working on _that_ , too.” You’d be surprised how far a generous discount can go in Latour. Several other bookshops have come and gone in the years since Quelgué Books first opened, the former owners now all committed customers with much-abused loyalty cards.

Will Lamb expect to see Simon at the festival tomorrow? Will he be keeping an eye out for a man dressed in blood and fangs for the occasion? The festival’s costumed monsters are usually nothing more than underpaid locals, acting the fool for a laugh. At the end of each day there’s a hunt around town—if you catch a monster and tweak their tail, they have to give you a badge. Five badges, and the title of _Seigneur de la Chasse_ is yours for a year. I’ve never entered; I’d rather be reading than running.

I try to imagine how Simon would fare, lolloping about on all fours, fleeing from children with sticks. It’s an unsightly premise.

 **“I am being** **_deadly_ ** **serious. One of you come and get me** **_right now.”_ **

Simon huffs, and I try to push the candle at him again. The afternoon’s getting on, sun moving swiftly across the sky—soon his will be the only light left.

“Keep it,” he whispers, quiet enough that I’d miss it, if I weren’t hanging on his every word.

“Excuse me?”

“Keep the candle,” he says again, placing a palm against the teacup and pushing it away. “Only going to get it smashed, aren’t I? Or lost. Or _stolen_.”

His eyes linger on the open front door.

“But you need it. You need to—”

He’s shaking his head and I’m hearing his teeth rattle.

“It’s not like I’m going to solve anything. Take it and go. Find your mates and get lost. Just to make it _very_ clear—you are _not_ a prisoner.”

_Get lost. Take it and go._

The dictionary unleashes a furious run of words upon the world, ones that dare not be immortalised for posterity. Snow turns to the sofa and I’m left holding the teacup, caught between our mess and the forest.

“We’ll find a way,” I tell him as he stalks off into the depths. “There are still two nights—you mustn’t lose hope.” And then, before I can stop myself, “Let me stay here. Let me help you.”

He grants me a shade of a smile. I see then that he’s hurt—a cut, winding red along his forearm. He must have injured himself outside as the magic whirled. (Also, the cravat's a lost cause.) “Baz, I’m not worth it. I should lie down and not get up, save everyone the bother.”

 _But I suspect you_ are _worth it._

“Snow,” I say, watching the back of his shirt. The blood there dries in patches. “Your wings. Will they come back? And you must let me see to your arm.” _Par l’amour de Merlin_ , _let there be a clean bandage in this house._

“No,” he snarls, hiding it behind his back. “And...every day. When I wake up, the wings are there again.” He brings his arm to his chest, shielding the cut. “It’s not bad, taking care of them. The wings. I’ve got it down to a two-minute routine.”

 _Taking care of them._ I’m sick with the hurt of it.

“Don’t do it tomorrow.” He’s looking at me as if to ask, _why the fuck do you care?_ And I don’t have an answer. Just… “Don’t, Snow. Don’t hurt yourself. There’s nothing wrong with them.” _With you._

I want him to agree, though it seems he has sufficient energy remaining to offer up yet another argument.

 _“Hurt_ myself? It doesn’t hurt. Every day I’m a different monster; it’s like the witch didn’t know what to do with me. I touch them and it’s like they’re not _there_ , like I’m not real! Tell me how that could hurt more. _Please._ ” He looks me in the eye, desperate and distant. “I don’t want to be like this.”

I sigh. _How many gambits do I have left that might pay off?_ “Unless you promise not to do anything drastic, I’m staying. And I’m cleaning that cut.”

He scowls. “Sod off, Baz. I’m not making you do any of this. You’re _not_ my prisoner. You’re the opposite—Penny, what’s the opposite of a prisoner?”

 **“There’s not really an antonym, Simon. A** **_free person_** **, I suppose, but** —”

“There you are, then—Baz, you’re _free to leave._ ”

**“And you’re free to march yourself upstairs and get that bloodied stump you call an arm under the cold tap, young man.”**

I let him go. He takes Penny and stomps upstairs whilst I head back to the patio to pick up the pieces of our meal—to weave further lies around one who excels at them. Before I step outside to join the tea party, I stash Snow’s candle in a kitchen cupboard, behind a sagging bag of flour.

“Has Simon gone to get his beauty sleep?” Shepard asks cheerfully, eyebrows rising above a chipped porcelain cup. I glance nervously at the patio where the red wings lay earlier—the stones are clear. “It’ll be a busy day tomorrow.”

Shepard remains committed to the lie about the festival. I lower myself reluctantly into an empty chair, staring into the depths of the cup that’s already been poured for me. (I half expect it to give me a piece of its mind, the way today’s going.) “He has gone upstairs,” I say mechanically.

Lamb is stirring a worrying amount of sugar into his tea, watching me unblinkingly. “Friend of yours, is he? I must say, I haven’t noticed him at the tavern. Performers usually arrive days in advance.”

“Yes, well, not everybody day-drinks.”

 _“Touché._ I suppose I must not complain that you have a life away from me, Basil—to see you three times in one day is a blessing.”

“Or a curse,” I mutter, draining the cup of lukewarm Earl Grey. There’s still a faint trace of camphor out here, I notice; perhaps Snow stepped too close to Lamb during their vicious eyeballing session and transferred some of his magickal scent.

“Will the tavern be in charge of refreshments tomorrow?” Shepard asks, no doubt marking the discomfort that’s plain on my face. “You must have a lot of work to do, as well.”

Lamb frowns, pulling what looks like an ashy, curling hair from the depths of his cup. _“Oui, bien sûr._ We’ll be setting up tonight—I’ll be there to supervise. The staff I recruited from the city this year are particularly careless.”

“You do what you can, right?” Shepard pours us both another cup and I dwell on what a miracle it is that he found a functioning teapot (and cups!) in the midst of Snow’s apocalyptic kitchen. “Can we get you anything to eat? There’s probably a sandwich to be had, if we piece things together. We’ve got garlic bread and olive oil? You could dip it. That sounds good.”

“No thank you,” Lamb replies politely, curling his lip. “I am not fond of garlic.”

Shepard does his best to provide, offering everything from a jam sandwich to a fruit salad wherein only the oranges have recently graced the floor. Lamb touches nothing, utterly disinterested.

“I’ll eat later. I’m rarely hungry during the day.”

“Are you sure? We’ve got cheese! Goat's cheese! _Local_ goat's cheese!”

 _“Non, merci_. The chef’s cooking steak tonight. So rare it’s practically living.”

“Oh, sounds great. Well, don’t let us keep you out here in the middle of nowhere.” Shepard despairs, having offered everything in sight and received nothing in return. “It’s getting late, and I need to get back to the shop myself—there’s always somebody who hasn’t bought their home protection guides. Want to walk my way?”

Lamb continues to stare at me, as he has done the entire time we’ve been seated, swilling the dregs of his drink. He twirls the ends of his hair with slender, ash-grey fingers. “Tell me, gentlemen—did I hear a woman’s voice earlier? A dash more melodic than your charming friend with the temper?”

If I look up from my cup, he’ll see it—the truth, obvious in my eyes. Shepard draws his gaze away from me with another smooth lie. (Honestly, where does he find them?) “Oh, that’s Penelope Bunce! She’s Simon’s makeup artist. Costume design—that’s a career now, in the big cities. How do you think he got such realistic antlers? Seriously, the things you can do with _papier-maché_ these days...she’ll be at the festival too. Tomorrow. I’ll introduce you.”

It’s a deep, deep hole we’re digging, and I can’t see a light at the end of it. (I’m so out of sorts, I’m mixing my metaphors. _Mon dieu._ ) Lamb casts a dark look at the back door, as if desiring another glimpse of the one he’d deemed a deformity. Then he stands, straightening his stained suit jacket.

“That will be well. Shall we?”

He holds out an arm to Shepard, who takes it as if it’s the best thing to happen to him today, and together they step off the patio. I’m concerned Snow will have crept back downstairs, bleeding over the parquet in his rush to see us leave, but Shepard is one step ahead—he guides Lamb around the side of the house and through a metal gate overgrown with ivy, instead of taking him back inside. I follow in a daze, one question left on my lips.

“You won’t tell anyone, will you?” I ask weakly. “That he’s here. In this house.”

Lamb smirks at me and bites into his lip. I dread the coming response, though Shepard gets there first.

“After they found out the Kathèrine was booked up, they went to this guy in the city—that was his actual name, _Guy dans la Ville_ —and he found this house for them. It was a steal...maybe in a literal sense, because when they got here, it looked like _that_. Not exactly a home away from home, you know?”

The two of them cast eyes at the red brick house, with its crumbling turret and wildflowers, growing up around the door. Perhaps something clicks into place for Lamb, because it looks like he relaxes into the ruse—or maybe _he’s_ a good liar, too.

“Don’t worry, friends. I won’t inform the council of our travellers, nor this strange property—the last thing we want is a panic about magickal residences and unheeded regulations. I look forward to their performance at the festival.” My shoulders sag with relief. We’ve reached the front of the house, vines winding around paint-peeled windows, and I watch them start along the path. Lamb looks back first. “Basil, _tu viens?”_

“I…” comes the start of yet another lie, one I’m ill-prepared for. _Calm down. It’s a good job you’ve no magic_ — _you’d have gone off twenty times by now._ “I must speak with Snow before tomorrow. And Bunce. They’ll need to be met, you see—in the morning. Else they’ll get themselves lost in the forest.”

Another devilish smirk. “We wouldn’t want that, would we?” Finally, _finally_ satisfied, Lamb turns to leave. It’s not without a parting blow, of course—words tossed over his shoulder, half a threat for any who hears them. “You can do better than a street performer, Basil. Come to the Kathèrine tomorrow morning for some civility—we’ll soon forget your little indulgence in savagery.”

I don’t reply.

I watch them turn the first corner, mentally calculating how many books I’ll need to sell in order to make this up to Shepard. _I’ll be on frontline money drawer duty for the next six months, at least._

Before worrying too much about the future, there’s a saturnine demon and his house of destruction to navigate. Snow said I wasn’t his prisoner, but still I find I don’t want to leave—something in Lamb’s face made clear his intentions.

_He’ll tell everyone about the suspicious, antlered man squatting in a crumbling cottage at the edge of town. He’ll tell the council, and they’ll want to know more. If nothing else, the tax inspector will be livid._

I can’t leave. Not tonight—not with Simon and Penny’s predicament heavy on my conscience.

_He told me not to tell anyone. And somehow, I’ve told everyone._

Hesitant, I enter the house. Will there be somewhere for me to sleep tonight, or has anything resembling a bed been long since smashed to smithereens?

Two nights remain before the curse takes a cursed man, and leaves his fate in the hands of those who’d care not for his ongoing survival. _Flames. Fire. More smoke than a demon could handle._

I see the candle casting a flickering glow across the kitchen walls. The cupboard door is open—Snow must have come downstairs to check on it. Did he see me out there, trying to talk a way out of this pit?

An empty teapot, chipped cups and upturned teaspoons.

The candle lights a way through the house, and I follow.

And at the end of this road I’m on, is there anything awaiting the creature upstairs but a flame, extinguished?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _merci pour les cartes d'Amérique_ \- thank you for the maps of America  
>  _la forêt_ \- the forest  
>  _j'étais invité_ \- I was invited  
>  _très bien_ \- very well  
>  _peut être pas_ \- maybe not  
>  _seigneur de la chasse_ \- lord of the hunt  
>  _par l’amour de Merlin_ \- by the love of Merlin  
>  _guy dans la ville_ \- guy in the city  
>  _tu viens?_ \- are you coming?


	7. a dream of daybreak

The night passes without sleep. (A shame, because it’s one that finally feels cool enough to dream through, after the muggy heat of summer.) Worry descends like an afterthought, a persistent anxiety to keep my eyes from closing.

It’s the thought of _him_ , trapped upstairs and stewing in regret. The thought of him giving up. I wake every hour to whisper words at a square of glass: each time I find him in the same cold, empty room, tossing and turning. Failing to sleep, as I did downstairs.

_Everything about yesterday could have been better._

Snow refused to say another word to me last night. He emerged, in the early hours, from what I presume to be his nest in the turret. Bunce was tucked under his bandaged arm, providing an after-hours lecture on _How Not to Ruin a Dinner Party, Volume One_. He tossed her onto a pile of discarded novels and stomped back upstairs, growling about the sofa. (I think he wanted me to sleep on it, as if it weren’t in roughly eighty different pieces.) _“You can go anywhere you want in the house,”_ he snarled, “ _but not the tower_ — _it’s forbidden. Keep the fuck out.”_

I lay there in the dark, metal springs digging between my ribs, listening to Bunce shower me with tales of _la vie avant la page._

**“I’m not going anywhere with him, after this. If you look up nuisance in the dictionary, his picture’s there** — **trust me, I checked. Noun, two syllables, definition: Simon “** ** _one hairy pain in my arse”_ ** **Snow.”**

I lay awake worrying about Snow and fretting over what Lamb might do next. I don’t expect he fell for Shepard’s ruse, as inventive as it was—no, the man’s read enough books and lived through a sufficient number of Hallowe’ens to know the difference between a costume and a monster. He saw through us like he saw through Simon.

And we know, in the sinuous history of Latour, what measures must be taken against beasts.

_Antlers over the bar. Would he do the same to Snow?_

_There’s still one night left. I’m awake and the sun rises with me; that means there’s a night and a day remaining._

I’ve read many stories in my time, and lost myself in more...but I can’t recall ever coming across one entitled _HELP! I’ve Cursed Myself and Want to Make it Stop: A Memoir_. It’s Snow’s own fault—he said as much—and that ought to be enough to make me leave. To go back to my simple, provincial life of half-hearted book promotion, _sans monstres._

But alas, I’m in this now. I’m invested.

This town would do to Snow what it’s done to me my entire life—shun, exclude, deride. (With a touch of extra violence.) No part of me wants that to happen.

_I want him to walk away from this. Then I can do the same._

By the time Lamb was shooed off the doorstep, pride laden with discounts deeper than any man deserves, it was late. Too late to stay up plotting, which was what I should have done. I’d thought the morning might bring a clear mind—that I would wake to find all that plagued me a completed puzzle.

Instead, the road ahead is hazy. A forest floor with paths unmade.

I acquire the rudimentary makings of breakfast from the unfortunate kitchen. In a battered bread bin I find beyond-stale croissants wrapped in paper, and an unopened jar of jam. I drain a jug of tepid orange juice and try not to think how long it’s been sitting there, collecting flies.

How did Shepard fare on his walk back to town? He didn’t let on, but I suspect he would rather not have abandoned Bunce—he’d write ballads about that dictionary, if given the chance.

I’ve been focused on Simon...but isn’t Penny’s fate also tied to his? If the curse isn’t broken, she might remain a book forever. Hoarding words and throwing them down in the middle of conversations, redefining what it is to be a braggart on an academic scale.

There’s more at stake than Simon Snow. And judging by the way Lamb looked at Shepard and myself last night, _we_ might well be in trouble, too.

All of this because I didn’t knock before entering. (Poor manners, indeed.)

I spend hours scouring the house for books, for clues to undo a curse, and find nothing. The taste of old orange juice is thick on my tongue, almost furry. There’s no news of demons who grow their wings back in the night, nothing about people who have been spelled to the page. If there’s worthy literature in this unkempt stable, it must be upstairs—if Snow hasn’t already torn page from spine.

_Else Lamb might have stolen them for his library._

(He _was_ lurking.)

I sneer at the disorder surrounding me.

_For all I care, his library can rot._

Yesterday’s close encounter repeats in my mind. _Could_ Snow be brought to the festival as one of the actors? Making his escape when harried monsters hide, in anticipation of the hunt...surely it’s too risky—when Snow’s tail is tweaked and his curse goes off, scattering bad magic like marbles, what then? He’ll turn the local kids into goats. He’ll make baguettes out of barkeepers. Feather dusters from wait staff. No, Snow mustn’t leave this house—there’d be a pyre with his name on it before you can say _une calamité_.

I move to the front door, hand closing around the handle. It rattles, but appears to be stuck—I can’t twist it either way.

**“Basil, are you leaving?”**

_Apparently not._

I shake and struggle, put a foot up on the wall and pull, but the door will not open. I move to the nearest window and work my fingers under the frame; it’s stuck. Though I have a sneaking suspicion it would yield for anyone else.

The house doesn’t want me to leave.

**“Please don’t break the door. It’s about the only thing with any remaining respectability.”**

I cross the war-zone, stubbing my toe on a damaged bust of Molière, and retrieve Penny from a pile of encyclopaedias.

“Having fun down there? Tell me an interesting fact and I’ll rescue you.”

**“I can’t tell if you’re being facetious or not, but fine. Did you know that when alpine marmots mate, they** —”

“Enough! No animal sex facts... _merde_ , Snow was right. You _are_ a know-it-all.”

She stings me with a rebuke that is, shall we say, synonymous with _illegitimate_ , then asks me to pull aside the curtains so she can see the forest.

**“If you’re leaving, it ought to be soon. The sky’s grey.”**

“Trying to get rid of me, Bunce? Perhaps the mirror is spelled so I can spy on _you,_ as well.” I place her down gently and try to unsuccessfully climb through one of the holes in the window. The house forces me back.

**“Oh dear, will your ego not fit through the gap? One day into our acquaintanceship, and I can already tell you’re destined to be one of life’s scabs. Pick you off, and you’ll sprout up again like a weed.”**

_“Quel charme!”_

She’s right about the weather—the sky’s a mess of cloud. I return to my dour breakfast, mopping up the jam with rock-hard croissant. I’m reluctant to leave without having another stab at Snow’s curse, though it seems he doesn’t plan on greeting the world any time soon. (And the house seems intent on keeping me.) “If I do stay, are you going to make me write lines?”

**“Don’t tempt me.** **_I must not be insolent towards my intellectual superiors._** **”**

“Have you tried that with Snow?”

**“If anyone** **ever** **manages to discipline that hazard, it’d be worth writing a book on. You know, for science.”**

“Of course. _C’est pour la science._ ”

I step away from the window, wondering if I can get a spot of non-scientific tidying done before the dragon stirs. After the curtains are rehung I find an actual feather duster, which doesn’t protest as I reach into neglected corners, and a broom to clear a way through the rubble. 

_Another path. Where does this one lead?_

Back to Lamb, apparently. He’ll be expectant after yesterday. Half of my late-night worries revolved around him being out there in the forest, searching for the red brick house. The turning is well hidden, and if Shepard kept him talking on the walk home he might not have been paying attention to his feet.

It’s a slim hope, but I cling to it. _Lamb can’t find the house, because the house doesn’t want to be found. We’re safe here._

With any luck, he’ll be busy with the festival today—Shepard’s there this morning to set up the book stall. (He’s probably been there hours by now, arranging his etchings of the Bard.) The Kathèrine’s staff provide refreshments, competing with Madame Possibelf’s delicatessen for the honour of _most jambon-beurre sold in an hour._

I lean against the back door, handle digging into my spine. (It won’t open. I am quite neatly contained.) Snow’s candle sits flickering on an empty chair, and I suppose my obsessive checking of it didn’t help me sleep, either. Rest was never in the cards.

_Thrift, daisy, buttercup, bluebell._

_...was that foxglove there before?_

**“Rain’s coming,”** Penny calls impatiently. **“Are you going or what?”**

_He only needs to do one good thing._

_If we make a day of it, he’s bound to do_ something _kind._

I laugh at myself, my naïvety. 

_You sweet soul, always anticipating that the good must naturally follow the bad, like sun after a storm._

“No. I’m staying.”

I’m not Snow’s prisoner, but something _is_ keeping me here. If this were a fairy tale, somebody would be writing a critical analysis of whether what I’m experiencing is some sort of syndrome, or a severe lack of perspective.

But this isn’t a fairy tale.

_No kiss to wake the princess, no song and dance to save the day._

_No kiss to...save the day?_

My cheeks are hot. How mortifying. I need a distraction—clothes, they’re always interesting. I need to find something clean to wear, so I’m not an eyesore when he wakes up. (Not that it _matters_ what I look like. And he’d be a fine one to judge.)

I investigate the far side of the ground floor, searching through drawers and cupboards, but finding nothing of use. (Lamb must have been in here during his daylight trespassing—there’s a lingering scent of cinnamon and something deeper that I can’t abide.) (Oh, and there’s a lovely floral scarf I might keep.) I ask Bunce what time she estimates it to be; I’m imagining Shepard at the shop, unlocking the doors with a ravenous outlook on the morning’s takings. There’ll be a queue—there’s _always_ a queue at Hallowe’en.

**“Do I look like a bloody timepiece to you? Look at the position of the sun and take a guess. Honestly, Basilton.”**

I frown. “Perhaps Snow could have transformed you into a talking clock instead. At least then you’d be useful.”

She does her best to insult me, though it’s all so many words over water.

Insults will be rampant in Latour, traders vying for the best spots and trying to outsell their neighbours. Things will die down in the afternoon, when the games begin. Will Shepard rejoin us then, when books have been sold and he can slip away unnoticed? Will he come back at all? It might be the only thing to bring Bunce out of her waspish storm of verbs.

**“Will your friend visit later? The chattier one with the tattoos.”**

It’s as if she’s read my mind. ( _Do_ dictionaries like to read?) 

“I expect he’ll want his glasses back, so. _C’est possible_.”

She grumbles at me, momentarily outdone. I linger by the back door, wishing Shepard an easy day, more than sorry for the trouble I’ve dragged him into. Then I wander around the kitchen looking for an unscathed plate. (Snow might be hungry after yesterday’s display.)

Drops of water land on my cheek and slide down my neck. The window above the sink is open; when I try to pass my hand through it, magic pushes me back. The clouds overhead are gathering, though it isn’t dire yet; we might only see half a downpour. I’d have time to reach Latour, if I walked without distractions. If I left immediately.

...but the house makes it clear that I’m not going anywhere.

I must say that I don’t hate it—the rain. Certainly not here, in the forest, safe beneath the cover of branches. The bookshop and its queue of customers is a distant memory. I’m further in, deeper than I’ve ever been—the raindrops that reach us are heavy and unforgiving, the sort to flatten hair and sink through to soak your skin. I crane my neck back and spin, searching the ceiling for answers and finding nothing but cracked paint.

How long do I need to be missing before someone searches for me? Would they come at all? Shepard would, surely. If anything, he’ll miss the speed with which I can shelve a pile of horror novels. (Obscenely popular in Latour, given their supposed dislike for the supernatural.)

I could stay out here until my presence is missed. In all fairness, I would have better success selling books to trees than to people. (We’re at about the same level of wooden disdain.)

Just as I’m ready to melt into reverie, I feel it. A shimmer, a start of something new—I glance back into the house and look for the glow of the candle. _Snow’s awake. His magic is moving._ I go towards it, a path leading from one place to the place I’ve found.

Surely it would be selfish to think the candle is leading me to _him._

_You’ve gone soft. Excited to waste the day in a rundown house on the edge of nowhere. Is it because_ —

I shake the thought away, taking time to look the garrulous dictionary in the _i,_ in case she should have any clever thoughts to share before he appears.

**“Eager for a bit of curse-breaking are we, Basil?”**

She doesn’t wilt beneath the look I give her; if anything, she grows more grandiloquent. “Carry on like that and I’ll bury you beneath the nursery rhymes.”

**“You wouldn’t.”**

“Try me, Bunce.”

There was a moment, in the middle of the night, when I believed it was a dream. They were never here—the talkative book, the surly creature of questionable graces. I remembered throwing myself over him yesterday, protecting him. And however dangerous it might be, I came to the conclusion—at what might have been four o’ clock, if the damned dictionary could tell the time—that I’d do it again. I replay the scene in my mind and each time, I end up on the floor with Snow, shielding him from a fate I’ve no power to overcome.

_I ran from them, once. Teeth, monsters, nightmares._

_But you, I’d protect._

And then Snow himself emerges from the dark, half a shade of hope in his eyes and a book in his arms, and I know it’s the right thing.

I did the right thing.

“You’re still here,” he snarls, as if I’m the last being he expected to see taking up space in his domain. I hold up the candle, unable to disguise my smile for anything other than what it is.

Genuine.

“Of course I’m still here, _bêta;_ the candle would have died in the night, if I weren’t watching over it. It’s growing new flowers—look.”

Simon crowds against me, following the foxglove with a finger. “Oh. That’s…wait. Here.” He holds out the book in his hands. I recognise it immediately. “You dropped this. I was...I read it? Take it back.”

“Thank you,” I manage. _You kept it. And it isn't in pieces._ “Oh, and...I have something of yours, too.”

Bunce makes a curious sound that I suspect might be her version of a snort. _Impudent glossary._

He smiles—he’s got a forked tongue this morning, and it flicks out between his teeth. He shuffles into the gloomy light of the living room, and I feel the wonder on my own face erupt. I pass him the square of glass. There’s no need to spell it to show the room his face.

_You’re right here._

Red, leather, spines tipped with black spikes—Simon Snow’s wings are a glory, a sight to behold. If the townsfolk could see him now, they’d surely name him a beast.

But I think he’s more of myth and legend than he knows.

The wings unfold, stretching around his head, blocking out daylight. He turns the mirror in his hands and seems to decide something, before pressing it into my palm.

“You don’t want it back?”

His smile drops. “No, you keep it. After this is done, I don’t know how lost I’ll get. Might need someone to find me.”

“It’s nice to see you in one piece,” I manage. He did a decent enough job of patching the cut on his arm. I want to know if he can fly with those wings, but I’m not sure it’s entirely appropriate to ask. The mirror lies cold and heavy in my pocket. “You look splendid, Snow. Much better than last night.”

His wings flap once more, pleased with the compliment.

**“Don’t flatter him,”** Bunce mutters, as Snow lifts her onto a dusty cushion, where she reclines in wordy splendour. **“He wouldn’t shut up about you yesterday, while you were in the garden with that pale man.”**

_About me? Were they purely death threats spilling from his lips?_

I do my best to make eye contact with the furniture, the walls, the ceiling—I wouldn’t want either of the cursed beings in the room to notice the red that rises in my cheeks. 

“Eager for a bit of curse-breaking, Bunce?”

**“More than you know.”**

Snow gestures appreciatively at my half-hearted cleaning—most of the rubble has been shunted into corners, and there’s a clear path to the empty fireplace that wasn’t there before. (I hadn’t realised there _was_ a fireplace. Based on the available evidence, I assumed it was another hole in the wall.) The sofa where I passed my sleepless night is still in pieces, but it’s piled together politely, as if awaiting reassembly. _We partake in a decent sort of destruction, in this house._

Perhaps we _were_ getting through to him yesterday.

Perhaps he was hoping I’d come back.

“Shepard wants his glasses,” I inform Bunce.

**“He will have to defeat me in a battle of wits.”**

“He’s a serious Shakespeare fan; there are tattoos from every play on his arms. He won’t go down without a fight.” Apparently I’m feeling playful this morning. “ _Sir, in my heart there was a kind of fighting that would not let me sleep._ ”

**“** ** _Hamlet._** **Amateur stuff. I am quite literally the bloody** **_dictionary,_ ** **Basilton** — **Shepard can do his best and I’ll be considerate enough to destroy him slowly.”**

With a surge of effort she flips herself over, so I’m left scowling at her synopsis.

“That’s good of you.”

It seems necessary to explain to Snow why I’m still here, but I don’t know how to begin. _I’m worried that the man who tried to steal your candle will tell people about you, and arrive here unexpectedly with a standard variation of an enraged mob in tow. My presence won’t realistically change anything, but something tells me I ought to be here. A prisoner, kept willing in your castle._

Snow is in a more talkative mood than he was at dinner, pacing channels into the shabby carpet.

“Could you sleep? I couldn't. I’ve been thinking about it, but...I don’t think so. Sorry. I mean, I appreciate the thought—your mate was quick, thinking up a story like that—but I _can’t_. Not really. It’d go badly. I’d get worked up again, and then all the magic would come out, and…well, you saw where things were going in the house. That posh git in the blue suit would’ve gone up in flames if you hadn’t knocked me over.”

I try to keep up, but he’s an inch away from racing out of reach. “What are you talking about, Snow?” This could well be a habit of his—beginning a thought in the midst of a paragraph, and hoping his correspondent is able to parse the context. “Nobody’s asking you to do anything. I certainly don’t wish to see a repeat of yesterday’s magickal performance.”

**“Neither do I. What are you planning on spelling me into next, a goat farmer’s almanac? A bimonthly cheesemaking journal? Oh, the** **_humiliation._** **”**

He blinks. His eyes aren’t as cat-like today; perhaps the curse curves into something else, each new daybreak it greets. (The fangs are still there, though. And the antlers.)

“The festival. Shepard’s idea—he said something about a hunt? If you think it’ll help I can _try,_ but...I just don’t think it’d go well. I’d only fuck things up worse.”

“I see,” I say, finally aboard his train of thought. (My, but it’s a runaway affair.) “Yes, well, I agree. Best not to risk it.” And then, just so we’re clear: “I was never going to ask you to go through with it.”

We stand awkwardly in the middle of the room, trying not to look at each other. I should have spent the night thinking of something clever to say but there’s nothing, absolutely _nothing_ useful in my head. “It's raining,” is all I can manage.

“I hate rain,” Snow says morosely. “It’d be good to be there, though.” The house feels cooler than last night—magic, lying dormant. “The festival, I mean. Do you go every year? If you go up the tower, you can see some of the town...not far enough, though. Just rooftops, really.”

_The town?_

_Rooftops..._

I have an idea then, but I don’t know if I’ll be able to tempt him into it—so far, the subtle approach hasn’t been effective. If I ask too plain a question he might bolt—back into his lair to sulk the day away.

_Daybreak came and we should make the most of it._ _There might be kindness in a sunrise._

“We could go upstairs and see,” I suggest. “If I’m allowed, that is. You could show me the turret, the rooftops. I can point at things in a vague sort of way and guess what they are.”

**“Sounds lovely. Almost like a da** —”

I take hold of the nearest object—a footstool that lost its legs long ago—and fling it at the vociferous book, leaving a Dent [ _noun:_ a mark made in the surface of something] between her _Cs_ and _Es._

Snow is practically dancing from foot to foot, glancing at Bunce as if seeking permission. I spare the candle a look—it’s almost entirely vanished, tallow folding in on itself.

“I mean, I know I said you _can’t_ go up the tower…”

“I believe your exact words were, _keep the fuck out.”_

“Yeah, but, y’know…” He rubs his neck, forked tongue flicking over his fangs. “If I’m there, it’d be alright. Just...didn’t want you wandering about up there on your own. Seeing how I live.”

_How you live._

Hiding in his lair, avoiding the judging looks of others...Snow and I are more alike than he knows.

“I’d love to see upstairs, Snow. And the view.”

“Alright, then. Do you want to come, Pen? I can carry you.”

She rocks against the sofa. **“I’ve had enough unwelcome views this week to last a lifetime, Simon Snow. Never take me into the bathroom with you again.”**

“It was only that once, and it wasn’t—”

**“Understood! Still, there’s rain in those clouds; I’d rather not risk disintegration, given that I’m mostly paper these days.”**

Snow nods and transforms, for a moment, into the boy he might once have been—he bounds from the room and thunders up the stairs, shouting for me to follow.

“Baz! Come on!”

“Yes,” I reply, “I’m coming.” I feel a wind at my back, as if the house is guiding me along in his wake.

“Bring the candle! It’s dark. I don’t want you to trip and break your neck.”

_That would be anticlimactic._ I breathe in, clinging to my own amazement as I trail him to the foot of the staircase.

I look up into the darkness he leaves behind, and as with the flowers on the path outside,

I’ll follow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _la vie avant la page_ \- life before the page  
>  _sans monstres_ \- without monsters  
>  _une calamité_ \- a calamity  
>  _quel charme!_ \- what charm!  
>  _c'est pour la science_ \- it's for science  
>  _jambon-beurre_ \- classic Parisian ham sandwich  
>  _c’est possible_ \- it's possible  
>  _bêta_ \- slang, silly goose
> 
> _"Sir, in my heart there was a kind of fighting,_  
>  _That would not let me sleep"_ \- Shakespeare, _Hamlet_ , 1599-1601. (Act 5, Scene 2.)


	8. a respite of rain

**“Baz!”** the book calls.

I’ve one foot on the stairs, the other on the floorboards.

 _“Qu'est-ce que c'est?”_ I ask, leaning back to spy her through the archway. She’s a stoic sort of hardback; I’m stared down easily. And I’m suddenly aware of how it might look, me following Snow up a darkened staircase. “This is not what your morbid slurry of a mind thinks it is.”

 **“It sounds to me like** ** _you’re_** **the one who needs convincing. I just wanted to say that if Simon’s in a thoughtful mood today** , **you should** **make the most of it. Enjoy** **the view.”**

“Do we have time to waste?” I’m holding the teacup, staring into its depths. Did the wildflowers have this much colour yesterday, or were they only outlines? “Though I suppose if we’ve no other bright ideas…”

**“It won’t be a waste if he’s happy; perhaps he’ll find a kindness up there. I’d keep an eye on the horizon, if I were you. And keep your hands to yourself.”**

Cheeks, meet mortification. (Again.)

“Every part of me wants to rip out your index pages.”

 **“Alas, you won’t. Hurry along before the rain comes** — **your hairy prince awaits!”**

She’s right. (About the rain, not the hairy prince part.) (He _would_ benefit from a dance with a razor.) Any opportunity for kindness must be seized—I adopt a pained smile and cross to the hallway, staring up the spiralling stairs into black. Snow must have reached the first floor landing—his tramping footsteps grow faint, his mumbling mutterings indistinct. I hold the candle with a shaking hand and go after him, almost breaking my neck on haphazard stacks of cardboard boxes, hoping for a glimpse of red in the black. On the landing, I find him waiting.

“Baz. Over here.”

I’ve not explored this floor; it seemed improper to go sneaking around at night, after Snow had taken himself to bed for the second time. (Plus there was that whole _it’s forbidden_ thing. Very dramatic of him.) I let him draw near, talons closing around my sleeve. He steers me to a narrow stone staircase that turns tightly, up and away to the right.

“This is the turret? It doesn’t look very safe from outside.”

“The floor’s uneven, but I don’t think it’s going anywhere. It hasn’t killed _me_ yet.”

He speaks with confidence, as if he isn’t days from disaster.

“What’s in the other rooms?” I ask, peering around. I can’t make out much, but there are closed doors—and there’s a dripping tap somewhere, suggesting the fabled bathroom that traumatised Bunce.

“Nothing, really. Bedrooms. Bookshelves.” He sees my eyebrow twitch, and holds up his hands. “Nothing useful, I swear—I went through them all, in the nights after the curse hit. Fairy tales, mostly. I read one of them...it was good—I think the author’s name was _Leprince de_ something?”

I sneer. It’s impassive at best. “You had me banished to a broken sofa when there were beds and books above my head? You’re an animal.”

He smirks, shrugging in that careless way of his. “Do you still want to see it? The view. I mean, we can. But you don’t have to.”

I wait for his spluttering to subside, eyebrows reaching for the ceiling. “Do I have your permission to go up there?”

He flicks his forked tongue at me and fakes a sarcastic bow. I start up the steps with another sneer and he follows, our footsteps echoing, scuff on stone. The air grows colder the higher we go—I remember looking up at the turret from outside, its stone weary and lean.

“I broke the beds the first night, after the witch left,” he admits. “Smashed them up with my tail. Wrecked them, like I wrecked everything else.”

“You didn’t wreck anything. And where _is_ this tail of yours?” I’m beginning to think it’s more of a tale.

He fails to meet my eye as we continue to climb.

“It doesn’t need cutting off. It slides away like a belt—no pain, no blood.”

_No blood. Where did you sleep last night, when you were hacking away at yourself?_

“You shouldn’t do that. Any of it.”

“Why not?” he snaps. “I’d like to see _you_ live with it, you vain git. You’ve got no bloody idea what it’s like.”

I don’t reply. We emerge into a small room at the top of the turret, bare but for a pile of old blankets by the wall, and a window cracked against afternoon light. _This is what he didn’t want me to see?_

“It’s hardly worth hiding.”

He shrugs, eyes on the stones. “Just...this is it, isn’t it? Where I gave up.”

 _No,_ I think. _This is where you get up again._

I leave the candle there, amidst faded fabric. The foxgloves glow purple with shadow. Snow’s right about the view—from the sole window we can see above the trees to where Latour waits in the distance, weather vanes spinning as the wind begins to pick up. You can almost see the square from here—a few feet higher, and we’d have a birds-eye view. The stalls, milling bodies, coins exchanged and goods proffered...pumpkins, corn, chocolate, sweet apples. It wouldn’t be the same as _being_ there, but it might be close.

“What’s it like?” he asks at my shoulder. His mouth’s hanging open, and the sun’s hitting the patches of bluish skin on his face to make him shimmer. “Living in the town. Do you like it?”

I think about cobblestones, books and cold mornings. Sour wine, dark looks and flyaway hair.

“It has its moments.”

_But truthfully, you aren’t missing much._

I turn my face to catch him looking at me. He’s running scabby fingers through his antlers, glancing at my hair. (I do _not_ want to know what it looks like. I tried to tie it back this morning, but there was no need—it had knotted itself quite effectively in the night.)

“Come on, Snow.” I push the window open the rest of the way, disused hinges complaining almost as loudly as he does. “Let’s test those wings of yours.”

I don’t wait to hear his refusal—I pull myself up and out through the narrow gap, breathing deeply for what feels like the first time in days. _Will the house permit this respite, or will the wind refuse and force me back indoors?_ It seems the rooftop is safe enough territory—the slates are mossy and solid beneath my feet. I dig my heels in and let the wind sway me, light rain landing in my eyelashes. Beneath me, the flowers are a sea of swaying colours, a mosaic of petals.

_This is one of your stranger ideas. That mad Pitch boy, at it again._

Snow clambers out and stands beside me, wings spreading around us.

“Baz, what the fuck? I’m not going down there,” he says, nodding at the forest, the town. His cheeks are red, wind stinging with his indignation. “I’m _not_ leaving this house. Fucking _look_ at me.”

 _“Ça suffit!_ I am not asking you to leave.” I bite my lip. _I doubt I’ll get much further myself._ “I am, however, asking you to _try._ To get up and fight for yourself.” His jaw flaps but no words come out. _Good. I’m not finished._ “Furthermore, I’ll have you know that I _have_ been looking at you this entire time, and I see nothing to get all uptight-storybook-villain about. Honestly Snow, all you’re missing is the moustache.”

He looks me dead in the eye and asks, “Are you fucking blind, mate?”

I roll my eyes and look skywards. He follows my gaze, up and along the roof of the turret. It hardly seems a place to stay for long, but perhaps a moment is all we’ll need—enough time for him to remember there’s more out there than what traps him in this house. (In his head.) 

I anticipate resistance; the argument and toil I’m beginning to recognise as it arises. But then he’s curling his lips back over his teeth and gripping my waist with his hands.

“Alright then, bookman.”

“Book _seller_.”

“Really? Shepard says you’re pretty shit at it.”

“Look here, you—”

“No, you look _here,”_ he snarls, pressing in close. I try to struggle free, but he only digs his hairy thumbs in tighter. “You want me to try? Want me to get up and fight?”

“What are you doing?”

“Want me to go along with your daft ideas that have only made things worse?”

“Snow, _wait—”_

“I was doing alright on the sofa. Or on what remains of the sofa—you know what I mean. Time was passing. I’d accepted it. But then _you_ come along, with your stupid floppy hair and your grey eyes and your soft baguettes and your flower books and your funny accent and _you compliment my antlers!_ I mean, what am I supposed to _do_ with that? You want to see what I am, Baz? You want to watch me fight and fly? Let’s fucking _go_ , then.”

There’s a brief flutter of panic, a heady awareness of his body against mine, and then we’re up—the world falls away beneath my feet, and my hands hook into his shirt. (He’s wearing red today, holes ripped in the back to accommodate his wings. He must have slept in it in anticipation.) Before I have time to breathe we’re landing on the turret’s sloping roof. I dig in my heels as we go skittering towards the edge—I end up with my back against the tiles, fingers digging into ridges for moral (and physical) support. I hook an arm around a gargoyle and hope it’s feeling companionable.

Once I’ve stopped falling, I’m aware of him landing beside me, sliding to a halt on the slate.

“There we are,” I gasp, looking up into a cloudy sky that’s closer, now. Rain splatters my eyes, my cheeks, my lips. “Nicely done, Snow.”

He looks at me, and for a moment I think he’s about to cry or scream—but then he bursts into laughter. It’s loud and excessive and, towards the end, little more than glorified wheezing. I catch a whiff of his smoke and magic—a shimmer that’s almost musical. I join in, because he’s right—us sitting at the top of a tower, laughing and being spat on by the heavens _is_ funny. It’s the most ridiculous thing in the world.

 _“Nicely done_ ,” he says as our laughter dies off. “That’s one way to put it. Shit, Baz, did I just _fly?”_

“Apparently so.”

“I thought they were just for show! Prop wings, you know. Like I really _am_ performing at that stupid festival.”

His smile drops an inch, and I run a hand over my shirt, my legs, my shoes. _He really did just grab me and fling me into the sky. He was everywhere at once._

“My accent is _not_ funny.”

He turns away, though not before I catch the red in his cheeks. “No, not really. I think it’s nice.”

He falls quiet for a time, hands folded over his knees. I point the way to Latour and his fangs appear as he sees the square for the first time—we can see the faint shapes of people, moving to and fro. (Does he know what would happen if he tried to move among them? Or was he as fooled by Shepard’s story as Lamb pretended to be?)

Snow names the flowers surrounding the house. _Buttercup, bluebell, lily of the valley._ So many, crowding us with colour. Beyond them, the forest rises in shades of orange and red.

“I like that book,” he mumbles. “The savage flower book. It’s got all the names in it, and drawings.”

He’s so earnest, I’d buy him a copy if it were still in print. “It was my mother’s; she passed when I was young. The coughing fever...half the town had it. Before she was ill, we’d go on walks in the early mornings and find the names of all the flowers we saw.”

He looks at me, and though I’d meant it to be a lighthearted anecdote, it’s sad. _Too_ sad.

“Oh shit, I’m sorry. About your mum.”

“No, it’s fine—it was a long time ago. Illness isn’t picky, is it? We were lost for a long time, but my father met Daphne—a remedy for all the wildly inaccurate _wicked stepmother_ stories out there—and we moved on. Slowly, you know. Bit by bit.” I close my eyes. Sometimes I can still smell her, if I try; fireside and honeysuckle. “Life went on.”

His face remains a smudge of regret. “I’m still sorry.” He licks his lips, hassling a fang. “My mum’s gone, too. She wasn’t half as hairy as me. No antlers. She was...well, she was normal.”

I do what comes natural, though I don’t know how he’ll take it. I lean across the space between us and squeeze his hand tightly.

“Snow, there isn’t anything wrong with you.” He doesn’t reply. I let go of his hand. “Did your mother like flowers, too?”

He smiles, but it’s no sort of happiness. “Yeah. Roses. Daisies, sunflowers. After she was gone, I let the garden go to shit.” He sighs, a heave of worry. “Let it _all_ go to shit, didn’t I? You can go, if you want, Baz—if you’d rather be down there. I won’t stop you.” He says it suddenly and quietly, without heart. I follow his trailing gaze towards the town.

I look at him as I reply, “No, I want to be here.” Then, with half a laugh, “Also, the house appears set on keeping me. I couldn’t open the door earlier. You should have seen me trying to crawl through the living room window.”

_And if naming the flowers makes things better for you, Simon, you can keep the book._

“Guess you’re stuck, then. Stuck here, like me. _With_ me.”

_That’s fine._

We pass hours in the drizzle like this. Snow reveals small scraps of his life before the curse, wild tales of him and Bunce travelling together, seeking distractions from the mundanity of life. I’m given an outline of a wanderer, of someone without a fixed place, who was happy to go where the days took him. I try to tempt him to dwell within some of those happier memories, to see if there’s anything of use down such avenues, but he drifts back into a morose quiet.

“I don’t know why I’m here,” he whispers. “Who cares about Hallows’ Eve? I never should’ve come. I just...wasn’t doing _anything._ I wanted to move, to see things.” And then, quieter, _“I should’ve given the witch shelter._ Why was I so horrible?”

I think of all the tiny horrors I’ve committed in my own life. Every responsibility shirked, conversation dodged, commitment eked out upon another. I remember my parents teaching me never to talk to strangers, and how I’d turn from shopkeepers without saying thank you, as if the lesson applied. Mine has been a life of mistakes and I tell Snow this—not to make him feel better, but so he’ll know he’s not alone.

“It’s not every mistake made, Snow. It’s how we learn from them—mend the pieces to make something better.”

And then I tell him my secret, my shame.

I tell him about the teeth.

“You see...I’m cursed too. When I was a boy, I once thought I saw something in the forest—a vampire, a figure shaped from blood and shadow. They were biting someone, a girl. I told everyone I knew and all those I didn’t, but none believed me. _There are no vampires in Latour,_ they said. _Stop trying to frighten people. Stop telling tales._ The council looked into it—the search lasted for weeks, but nothing was ever found. No fangs, no victim. I’m the laughing stock each year this festival rolls around—doomed to a week’s worth of sly looks and gossip. If I hadn’t told anyone about that night, and of the dreams that followed...things would have been different.” I hesitate. “Easier.”

He's watching me. My eyes, my nose, my mouth. “That's awful.”

I tip my head back so I might taste the rain. “We match, Snow. We’re both messes, and life brought us here. That matters.”

“We match,” he says quietly. “It matters.”

He turns away.

My fingers ache with how hard I’m gripping the slates. The drizzle falling over us turns to mist, and as the first shades of pink begin to snake along the horizon, he turns to me again.

“Baz. We’ve been up here ages…are you cold?”

I _am_ cold. I’ve been shivering for a while now, but I didn’t wish to embark upon a spiral of complaint. Not when he finally seemed at ease. The dipping sun has made room for an easterly wind to rise, the already biased turret creaking treacherously beneath us. I wonder how bored Bunce must be, waiting for us to surface. I anticipate a hundred sarcastic comments when we _do_ appear. (I daresay she’s had plenty of time to drum up a few biting remarks.)

“I’m fine.”

“You’re cold, aren’t you? I fucking _hate_ the cold.”

“You hate a lot of things. Isn’t it exhausting?”

Before he can settle on a reply he slides closer, one of his wings draping over my shoulder of its own accord. (He doesn’t remove it.) I don’t know how to express that I like them better like this—on his back, rather than crumpled on the patio. I should ask why he’s huddling against me, but instead I sink into it. The sudden flood of warmth along one side, the race of his heartbeat through his shirt...I settle back, and think of the candle.

_Surely this counts as a kindness? Warming a stranger, keeping me close. He’ll say it’s purely practical, but..._

_...is this not what the witch wanted?_

The curse doesn’t break. (Or if it does, the wings evidently aren’t part of the bargain. They remain over us, embracing.)

After a time, I abandon any pretence of this being a convenience. Throwing hazard to the whipping wind, I slide an arm around his waist, fingers folding into the fabric of his shirt. He lets me, his left arm coming up over my shoulder; he holds it there, the blue-green film on his fingers shining in the corner of my eye.

This feels like a kindness to me, but I am no judge of curses.

I wait with my breath held, but nothing changes. The magic rests.

“Snow,” I whisper, because I’ve had a thought on my mind since morning. “I want to try something.”

“What’s that?” he asks. This is the closest we’ve been; I can count the marks on his face, each marred inch of skin.

“It’s something Bunce said earlier. About _les bisous_ —kisses.”

He moves restlessly, as if ready to throw himself off the roof. “Baz, look—”

“It’s not romantic,” I say quickly, in case he’s concerned. (I don’t _think_ it’s romantic. Perhaps the sunset’s getting to me.) “More...practical. An experiment. For science.”

“An experiment?” he asks, unsure.

“Absolutely,” I say, nodding. “You see, in fairy tales a kiss is the solution to all manner of maladies—curses, spells gone awry, the general tedium of the day. Often there will be a true love clause.”

“A…what?”

Snow has stopped his rocking, but he might yet fling himself off the edge to get away from me. I need to tread carefully.

“I’m not saying that’s what the witch did. But...it’s quite common in stories. Shepard, Bunce…they were discussing it yesterday. _True love breaks the spell_ , and all that _._ ”

He stares at me as if I’ve just suggested he cartwheel naked across the Kathèrine’s mahogany bar. “ _And all that?_ This isn’t a story, Baz. And anyway, is that what this is to you—true love?”

“Of course not,” I splutter. (Then _why_ , pray tell, are you blushing _again?_ ) “But isn’t it worth a try? Get the obvious answer out of the way. Then we can focus on finding another solution.”

“The obvious answer,” he repeats blankly. “If it’s an experiment, if it's just _scientific,_ it won’t work. Not if you don’t mean it.” His lip shakes, then a thought catches him mid-frown. “Hang on, is kissing even a kindness?”

It’s hard to respond to that. “I suppose it can be. If you don’t gnaw the other person’s face off.” I look deliberately at his fangs and hope he gets the point. (What are the logistics of kissing someone with a forked tongue? Do I just wave mine around and hope for the best?)

He remains unconvinced. “A kiss…isn’t this _you_ doing _me_ a kindness? I doubt that’d break the spell.”

_But it might cast another._

I shake my head to clear it, and twist until I’m facing him. It’s not that I _want_ to—he’s irascible at best, and with all this face and angles going on I imagine it’s going to be like snogging Shepard’s fountain pen collection.

(I _do_ want to.) (I’m deathly curious.) (I’ve thought about it all day.)

“And are we supposed to evaluate it afterwards? Write some sort of analysis?” He pales. “Or...an _essay._ ”

“I doubt it, Snow. It'll either break your curse, or it won't. No need to get started on your thesis.”

“I don't know, Baz,” he says, shaking his antlers. “It sounds a bit risky, if you ask me. I'm not sure science and fairy tales mix all that well.”

It _is_ worth the gamble. Definitely. He’s just too stubborn to admit it. Does he even _want_ to be free of this curse? Perhaps he likes the wings and antlers more than he’s letting on. (In truth, I don’t mind either.)

“We either try it or we don’t, Snow. It’s up to you. It’s not like you’ll get far attempting to kiss Bunce, should you change your mind.”

He puffs his cheeks, mutters to himself, then lets whatever argument was fermenting slowly deflate. I’ve turned my head up to the sky again to catch the last of the rain, and it takes a moment to understand what’s happening when fingers slide under my chin, bringing my face down to his.

 _Hot_. That’s my first thought. Then, _smoke. So much I could choke._

Simon Snow pushes his mouth against mine, and I push back, because it only seems fair. _You don’t get to throw me up on the roof and then steal my ideas, espèce de coquin._ His fangs don’t get in the way nearly as much as anticipated—the kiss turns soft within moments, and then we’re pulling as well as pushing, a tug of war on the rooftop, my hands around his neck. I kiss him for purely perfunctory reasons, and he returns in kind. (Ha!)

I haven’t kissed anyone before. (Unless you count the day I kissed goodbye to my potential, as I stood before the council and begged for an end to Hallows’ Eve.)

Kissing is... _not_ magickal. Not entirely. It’s warm, wet. A bit messy, if we’re being honest. But Simon is patient, his lips a murmur against mine—he tips his head to the side and I melt into it. Into him.

It’s good. _So_ good.

And for a simple experiment, this one goes on a while longer than it needs to.

(The forked tongue is not a hindrance. If anything, it’s adding to the experience.)

When we break apart, half a breath and completely speechless, Snow has a small smile separating his fangs. He helps me untangle my hair from his antlers, and I smooth his wing down over my shoulder. Then we sit apart to take in the view again.

“Looks like it didn’t work,” he says after a while. “Your experiment failed, Baz. I’m still uglier than a sack of smashed turnips.”

“You’re not ugly,” I reply automatically, willing my pulse to slow. I gradually remember where I am and what my own name is, as well as the small matter of the curse. His lips appear softer, after kissing—are mine that red? “But...I suppose you’re right. It didn’t work.”

He looks at me, and for the briefest gap in time, his face is completely free of the creature.

“It _was_ worth a try, Baz. And...I mean, it could be worse, right? Me, this. It’s not the end of the world.”

He’s pointing at his wings, face, his hands, his hairy feet. (His tongue flicks out, just to drive the point home.) I tell him that it’s _not_ bad, not at all, and he agrees.

We stay like that, watching the light leave Latour—torches are lit with fire by cheering townsfolk, their cries of delight forming a chorus at our feet. (It’s almost time for the hunt.) After some minutes, it becomes clear that one of the voices is _not_ that of an eager hunter, but of the mouthy tome downstairs.

_Penny. I forgot all about her._

**“If there’s anyone alive up there, they’d do well to remember me. There’s room inside my back cover for an obituary or two, you realise!”**

“I should go and see what she wants,” Snow whispers, squeezing my arm.

“I’d best get inside too, before I’m adopted by your gargoyles.”

He laughs, and I think he’s going to say something else. (Perhaps give me a mark out of ten for the kiss, or provide constructive criticism.) But then he catches himself and tells me to roll off the edge of the roof. I do so without thinking, without pause—luckily he’s there beneath me, hands on my waist again, steadying us on the moss. (Those wings are a boon, whichever way you look at them.)

Again I think he’s about to say something, and he doesn’t.

The heat of the house rises to greet us, and as I climb through the window, I feel a final shiver slip from my shoulders. He clambers through behind me, wings folding neatly against his back.

 _“Je devrais partir,”_ I say quietly, watching the enchanted candle twist and burn next to the blankets. I’m thinking about his arm around me, and mine around his. I’m thinking about the wildflowers on the cup, now bursting with colour. I’m thinking about the kiss, the rain, the heat of him. “If the house lets me, I should leave.”

He’s already starting down the tower steps, though he pauses to look back at me—it’s hard to know what he’s thinking. (Probably _something_ about food, but I can’t be sure.)

“I sleep there,” he grunts, pointing at the bundled blankets. “Well, I don’t get much sleep with all these body parts coming and going, but. You know.”

 _No_ , I think. _I don’t know. What are you trying to say?_

Then he says it.

“You could stay.”

_Oh._

“Again. Up here, I mean. Um…” he swallows, and I’m wondering if a kiss _there_ , in the dip of his neck, might have broken the curse. _I could try._ “...with me? If you want. I mean, it wouldn’t be a…I wouldn’t _mind._ You’re cold! I’m not. And it’s raining—pissing it down, really. You’d get…wet. And you’ve seen it now! Where I’m…living. Rotting. So, you can’t leave? Well, you can. But you can’t go wandering about in the middle of the fucking night, alright?”

I don’t know what to say to that—any of it; it’s incomprehensible gabble, at best—so I say nothing, and hope my face doesn’t betray how keen I am.

_Stay. Stay up here with you, in the tower._

“If you want. You’re not a prisoner, alright? And Penny would be fine with it. It’s getting dark. And that twat—sorry, what was his name? The bloke with the bloodstain on his shirt?—he might still be about.”

I’m trying to find my voice. _Use your words, Basil._

“Penny probably just wants me to put her back on the pile for the night,” he continues. “She pretends not to care what the other books think, but I reckon she likes the company.”

A second night adrift in this house? Shepard will be sending the hounds out in search of me. Still, with the weather how it is and no sun to guide me along the forest path, it would be wiser to stay. (And if I stay, maybe...)

Almost nothing remains of the candle. I can see Snow through one more night, then take myself back to town. Endure the closing round of festivities with Shepard, and try not to think about Snow, losing the last bits of himself.

He _has_ been kind to me. The magic might not see that, but no matter.

I see it.

_That kiss was a thousand tries in one._

“I suppose, seeing as there are no actual _beds_ in this shack of yours, that I could…”

Without an ending to that thought, I cross to the wall and sit down by the blankets. He smiles and gallops down the stairs, wings hitting off the walls either side of his head. I listen to each creak and groan of the house beneath me, trying to find my place. It wants me here; it wants me to stay.

_This is madness. You hardly know him._

_One rooftop kiss and the world’s upside down._

But I know he’s not a beast. I’ve seen enough to be sure of that.

Snow returns before long, grumbling about Bunce and her insistence she be placed next to the more companionable thesaurus, and not the gossipy paperbacks. He’s got the plate of food I put together earlier, more bread and cheese for us to maul. He wriggles in beside me, pulling musty blankets over our legs, and proceeds to toss and turn until his wings are flattened beneath him. I lie next to him, tracing a finger over red patterned like marble.

“It’s more comfortable without them.”

I scowl at him. “If I roll over in the night to find any sort of hand tool hidden beneath a pillow, Snow, I’m going to be cross _._ ”

He quiets his threats against himself and drapes an arm over me. He looks at me, hesitant, until I roll against him.

“Are you still cold?” he whispers.

“No,” I whisper back, “but don’t move.” _You’re warm._

We can’t pretend this is anything other than what it is now—outright cuddling. There’s no spell, no enchantment or curse resting on the stones with us tonight—there’s just us, holding on in the dark.

I press closer, find his lips with my own. I wonder if they're still red.

“You're really into science, yeah?” he murmurs, hands warm against my back.

I close my eyes and twist my fingers in with his, because I’m feeling brave. _“Malheureusement,_ I think it might be the antlers.”

He laughs. He kisses me again. I kiss him back in dying candlelight.

Afterwards, I listen to the steady rise and fall of his breath as he inches towards sleep, remembering how it felt on the rooftop. _Rain, wings, an ocean of colour at our feet._ I let that be the road I walk to rest.

Snow folds himself over me, and through shuttered eyelids I watch the candle dance; the last light left lingering before we fade into dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _ça suffit!_ \- that's enough!  
>  _les bisous_ \- kisses  
>  _espèce de coquin_ \- informal, rascal  
>  _je devrais partir_ \- I should go  
>  _malheureusement_ \- unfortunately


	9. a reckoning of smoke

Smoke, brimstone, fire in the night.

_Is this a dream or what I’m running towards?_

I’m dancing. Wearing another’s clothes, spinning with my hand in yours. (I can't dance. I hope nobody’s watching. It can’t be good.)

(With you, though. I might dance with you.)

(With…)

I wake to the smell of soot and the taste of ash, though there’s nothing alight in the tower. (It could well be Snow; he’s hot as burnt coal, pressed against me.) I’d peel him off, but I like this feeling, his closeness. His face is against my shoulder, warm breath over my chest...and our legs must have become tangled at some late hour of the night. I don’t mind that either. (Well, I could do without the spurs digging into my ankles. But that’s my only complaint.)

I’ve never lain with another like this; it’s familiar in a way I can’t describe. Snow is surprisingly pleasant to sleep beside, the blankets beneath and above us softening the stone. He’s my personal furnace to cling to. (And I do.)

Best of all, I slept like the dead. It more than makes up for the night before, and I urge myself not to forget the luxury of waking rested. It’s not unusual that I’d dream of fire; I often do. Honestly, it makes a change from blood and teeth.

“Baz...morning...”

Snow stirs, his sharp toes digging into the balls of my feet. I hold him closer, my arm long since gone numb, and enjoy the strangeness of being in a new place with a new person, daybreak knocking at the window.

_“Bonjour_ , Snow.”

We shuffle and adjust, trace a kiss across each other's lips, and then he’s nearly cleaving my head clean off my shoulders with his wings.

“Sorry. They’re pains, honestly, I can—”

“One word about a saw and I’ll sentence you to an hour’s conversation with Bunce.”

He groans, flopping back into the blankets, arm draped tragically across his face. _As I thought._ For a moment I’ve completely forgotten about the curse—my eyes drift to the teacup at our feet, its taunting flame unsteady in a pool of hot wax.

There’s a new flower winding in with the rest.

“Sunflowers, Snow! _Les tournesols._ Look at the colour.” I peer inside to assess the candle. “ _Merde,_ it’s—”

“Nearly gone,” he says, defeated. “Yeah. It’s nearly dead. Won’t be long now.”

Something seems to change and then he’s moving, standing to shake out his legs. He dips to press a hesitant kiss to my forehead.

“What’s wrong?”

He rubs at his arms, feeling along the width of his wings. (He also checks for a tail.) (I _assume_ that’s what he’s trying to achieve by desperately slapping at his own arse.) 

“Me? No. Nothing, just…” His eyes drag back to the candle. “It’s nearly over, isn’t it? For you, at least. I don’t know what to do after tonight. Me and Penny will have to go somewhere else. Can’t stay here with your stupid mate sniffing around.”

I stifle my disappointment. (I’m not sure if I’m more upset that he wants to leave Latour, or that he views Lamb as my _mate,_ of all things.)

“We’ve got today, Snow. There’s time to find—”

“—my kindness?”

He’s laughing at himself, an unbeliever, striding away whilst failing miserably to wrestle a fresh shirt over his wings. (What happened to the other one? I don’t remember him taking it off.) (He gives up and steals a blanket for cover, instead.) I’m left with the dying candle and the imprint of his warmth, swiftly cooling.

“ _Oui_ ,” I whisper to the draught he leaves in his wake. _“Ta gentillesse._ ”

I stretch, retrieving the drowning candle and crossing carefully to the window. I push the glass and drink in cool air, pleasant and wholly deceptive—this will be no good day, as the treetops seem to promise. This will be difficult and _long_.

Also...it seems we’re doomed to be dramatic. Through the trees comes the sound of crashing and the snapping of twigs, and before there’s time to raise the alarm, a familiar figure appears on the path.

_Lamb?_

No—

_Shepard._

I was hoping he’d come back, but wasn’t sure the house would let him. He brings company. ( _Not_ the two-legged sort, thankfully—his arms are loaded with books.) I dash downstairs, tripping once more on the boxes that plagued me yesterday. I ignore Bunce’s cry of **_“What the blazes? Did we take in a herd of wildebeest?”_** and rattle the door handle; it still won’t open for me. Fortunately, Shepard has a helpful shoulder barge prepared for the occasion. He tumbles into my arms.

“Baz! You’re alive!”

“Shepard! You’re observant! Why the rush?”

He’s catching his breath, pointing at the plants. “The forest had me going in circles for hours; when I left Latour, it was still dark. Didn’t know which way was up, in the end—this house _really_ doesn’t like guests. Apart from you, I mean. Do you require one of my famous rescue operations?”

I can just picture it—an adept gambol through a shattered window, overly enthusiastic even in his moment of self-sacrifice.

“No need. Please keep all limbs contained.”

“If you say so...then, you’re sure there’s still no exciting _prisonnier-et-bête_ situation going on?”

“Certainly _not_.”

He smacks me on the back and pushes by, overlooking the broken umbrella stand. He goes flying, skidding across the floorboards and landing face-down in the living room, right in front of a disgruntled dictionary.

**“...was that strictly necessary?”**

“Wait, who said that? Voltaire, was that you?”

**“Do** **_not_ ** **start with me, bookseller.”**

“Oh hi, Penelope! Can’t see a thing without my glasses. You could’ve been any old Dickens or Jane.”

Shepard’s spectacles are perched on her cover, so I know she can see me. _I will pry those glasses from you if it costs me my fingertips._

“What’s going on?”

Simon’s standing in the kitchen doorway, illuminated by the light sneaking in behind him. He’s got a handful of grapes in one hand, and a crusty-looking _pain au chocolat_ in the other. ( _Naturellement_ , he’s making quick work of both.) He has also located a cache of clothes—there’s an actual shirt with _buttons_ draped over his arm. He sees me looking and hides it behind his back, scrabbling for the blanket. His chest is a mess of ash-grey skin, gone the greens and blues of yesterday.

_Again, the burning._

I inhale, but it must be in my head. The aftereffect of a dream.

“Nothing’s going on,” Shepard says cheerfully, piling books on the floor. I recognise them from the shop— _Hallows’ Eve for the Uninitiated_ , _Monster Hunting for Beginners, How to Swing that Scythe like a Professional._ None of the titles inspire confidence. “Baz, can I have a word? Is there a patch of scorched carpet where we can conspire?”

“What do you need to talk about?” comes a suspicious growl.

Simon is blocking the doorway, arms crossed. He doesn’t have antlers today. (He shed them in the night. They’d make a splendid wall decoration for somebody other than Lamb.) His ears _are_ rather pointed, like folklore’s unhappiest elf, which might explain his keen hearing.

“It’s about the shop,” I lie, pointing Shepard back into the hallway. “ _Book things_ , you know. Terrifically boring, tiny print, absolutely no pictures. We’ll be right back.”

Bunce begs us to take her along, and though I’m trying to avoid any action that might rouse Snow’s malignant magic, Shepard doubles back for her. We end up in a far room, furniture covered in dust sheets, unseen for what might be decades. There’s a clear enough corner—Snow’s rages haven’t brought him this far. (Though they might yet. I can hear him in the kitchen, banging his way around breakfast. He’s like a rhinoceros with a foaming hangover.)

**“Did all go well yesterday? At the festival. Did you eat a toffee apple? How did it taste? Oh hush, Penelope** — **it tasted like** **_toffee.”_**

“Hallows’ Eve: Round Two was great,” Shepard replies, not meeting my eye. (Bunce’s headings go overlooked, too.) “We cleared out a whole shelf of _Ghastly Home Improvement_ books. And Monsieur de Gates won the sandwich eating competition—nothing new there. But…”

My heart plummets. _No good sentence ever started with a conjunction._

**“Does he do this a lot? Trailing off dramatically? How tiresome.”**

“...well, everything _was_ normal. And even when the hunt began, nothing _too_ strange happened. Just the usual strange, you know. We had some good monsters this year—did you know Keris is into embroidery? She made her own costume from scratch! _Un gobelin vert.”_

**“I can only assume that this is how you sell books to people,”** Penny remarks. **“Talk at them until they pay you to stop. It’s like a hostage situation of the soul.”**

Shepard continues, undeterred. “Baz, there was somebody missing from the hunt. Somebody who enjoys being front and centre at all times, if you know what I mean.”

I can guess where this is going. Who this person might be, the noticeable bastion of local business, missing from the biggest community event of the year. “Lamb. He wasn’t there.”

Shepard taps the wall: once, twice, thrice. “You know it...he didn’t show his face all afternoon. The Kathèrine had its refreshment stall, and the staff were there…what’s that new bartender’s name? Burton? They come and go so quickly. He ran the show, but Lamb didn’t appear.”

I don’t like the sound of Corentin Lamb, absent without a trace. Where would he be, if not indulging in his favourite extracurricular activity? (Shameless self-promotion.) (He’d make a good author.)

“The hunt went fine. And I thought Monsieur Lamb was just upset about the tea, you know…although he seemed happy enough when I left him. He agreed to a new discount rate, and said he’d stop by to pick out a few American hardbacks, but he never came to the door. Then, when I went out to the _boulangerie_ at dawn…”

**“Oh,** ** _please_** **would you finish a sentence? These ellipses are killing** **me.”**

“What happened?” I ask, utterly desperate. It’s a good job Snow isn’t involved—he would have shaken the truth out of Shepard like a mouse from a grain sack.

“The tavern was closed! They’re always open to catch those depressed before-work crowds, but there were wooden bars across the doors…I went to see what was happening, and the postman stopped me. He said there was an emergency council meeting taking place, and nobody’s allowed in. They were in there all night.”

_“Merde_ ,” I murmur, slumping against the wall. That’s the sort of despair I’m familiar with lately—the sort strong enough to wreck a man’s posture beyond repair. “The council met?”

_And they spent an entire night in Lamb’s lair? They’ll be lucky to come out alive. At the very least, they’ll be up to their necks in pungent cologne._

**“What’s this a council** **_of_** **, exactly? Anything immediately relevant to our minor magickal mishap?”**

“In a way,” Shepard says evasively. “The OAMPAPPC—they’re the town elders, the old families. I didn’t open the shop this morning; I came here instead. And just so you know, if there’s mention of a garden fence bandit in tomorrow’s Gazette, I don’t want anyone to panic. It was me, trying to find my way back. Circles, squares, you name it—I walked them. Even thought I was seeing things, towards the end—faces, you know, in the trees. It took _forever,_ but I found the flowers in the end…good job you’re always carrying that book around with you, Baz. Some of it’s starting to wear off on me.”

_You saint of a bookseller. You god amongst salesmen._

**“I take it this council being involved is not a positive development,”** Bunce says. **“Anything with an acronym like** **_that_ ** **is begging for trouble.”**

“You’re telling me,” Shepard agrees. “There’s also the Official Association of Master Chocolatiers, Chefs and Pâtissiers, the OAMCCAP, and I’m always getting them confused. Can’t imagine what the meetings are like.”

We crouch in the corner, contemplating how much should be shared with the demon next door. (If his wicked ears haven’t already gleaned the details.)

**“If Simon gets upset, I am written proof of how things end. Proceed accordingly.”**

Wouldn’t that be a sight to see? Curses flying, Latour placed under an unbreakable spell, rendering their protections pointless…knowing him, he’d put all manner of impossible tasks into the magic. _To appease me, construct the greatest sandwich in all the land_. _Said sandwich must perform a minimum of one musical number to satisfy._ (Yes, Snow _would_ make a song and dance of things.)

“Are you any closer to solving the candle problem?” Shepard asks. “Because if not, we should think about moving. Get him out of here before Lamb takes action.”

It’s right and reasonable, wanting to run. Perhaps Snow would be amenable—I _did_ get him to fly yesterday. But that’s the trouble with demonic curses. It’s unclear what will be too much—what will feel like a push, instead of encouragement.

“We’re no closer.” _We did try passionately kissing, and I would say it was highly successful, though the science might disagree. Oh, and I let him stab me in the back with his antlers all night long._

He’s waiting for us when we step through the archway, scrunched up on the remains of the sofa.

“What are the books for?” he asks sullenly, waving to Shepard. “Alright, mate. I’m surprised you came back.”

“Me too,” Shepard grins. “The forest made it as difficult as possible. I followed the wildflowers in the end—they brought me right to the door. Tell me, Simon…do you read much?”

We end up cross-legged in front of the soot-blackened fireplace, digging through Quelgué Books’s remaining Hallowe’en stock. Snow makes it abundantly clear that he _did_ hear everything we said, he _doesn’t_ want to go anywhere, and he _refuses_ to partake in any magic—he’s so childishly insistent that the walls begin to glow. (I’d swear they draw closer to us.)

“You might not have a say in the magic,” I remind him. My hair is static, clinging to my shoulders— _his_ hair is curling up and over his ears, standing on-end. “You’ve woken it, at any rate. Well done.”

“How about we get you dressed?” Shepard tries. “I see you’ve picked out a nice shirt.”

_Indeed he has. There’s merely the small matter of buttons and those hazardous wings to attend to._ Snow stares at the shirt and a button pings off, lost to the depths of the room. He’s a haberdasher’s nightmare come to life.

“I wanted to look normal. Don’t you keep banging on at me about _trying?_ ” His eyes drop, hands creeping up his spine to where the wings sprout. Shepard, ever the saint I’ve dubbed him to be, hasn’t spared them a single nosy glance. “But these...”

I make it clear, through a series of strident hand gestures and coarse sentiments, that Snow is absolutely _not_ to touch his wings, on this day or any other. (Never again, if I have my way. Which I intend to.)

“You’re better off staying perennially shirtless than doing _that_ to yourself.”

“I can’t stay shirtless. Penny says it’s indecent.”

“How so?”

“My hairy t—”

**“Simon, the wings are staying! For Baz’s personal benefit, more than anything else.”** Bunce shuffles until she’s facing Shepard. **“So, this council of yours. How long do they delay between tabling a motion and chopping its head off?”**

“You _what?”_ Snow splutters, ripping a sleeve off what really _was_ a nice shirt. “What’s with this fucking council? Haven’t they got anything better to do than murder people? What a load of primordial bollocks. They’re not chopping off _my_ bloody head!”

_A bloody head. That’s exactly what you’ll be._

Also: primordial. He’s been spending far too much time cooped up with Bunce.

“Nobody’s chopping off any heads,” I say confidently, as if I’ll have a say in the matter. My standing in the community has been limited since my dance with madness as a child.

The books have no answers for us—Snow attempts to fight his way inside a shirt that will never accept him, and Shepard flits disconsolately through pages, seeking answers from Bunce that her dialectic depths cannot fathom.

**“Did I see a blackboard in one of the rooms?”** Bunce asks at one point, though I’ve no idea how she plans to make notes. **“We could write lists. Get things in order.”**

“There was one,” Snow replies unhappily. “Fucked it up, though. And then I ate all the chalk.”

What eventually breaks us from our futile quest for knowledge is a knock at the door—loud, jarring and wholly unexpected.

I hush the others with a look, though Snow can’t resist a token whine, echoed in how the house tilts to one side before righting itself.

“Calm down, _diablotin_ ,” I spit. “Before you see us turned into talking hats, or something else unbearable.”

**“Don’t you mean unwearable?”**

I groan, sneaking to the archway and pausing to listen. Snow is beside me in a frantic, scrabbling second, making as much noise as he possibly can.

“Not a word, mouth-breather,” I intone, pushing a finger against his lips. He’s too shocked to argue. (Duly noted.)

_“Bonjour?”_ comes a voice I don’t know. “Is anybody there? We wish to speak with the master of the house.”

Two interesting things: the idea that this chaos might be under a master’s control, and the use of _we._ That means there’s more than one stranger lost on the forest path this morning. Shepard sighs from the fireplace, cradling the dying candle—“Frédéric Truffe! OAMP...the council!”—his encylopaedic knowledge of Latour’s residents coming in use. “I’m sorry, Baz. They’ve must taken a leaf out of Lamb’s library and followed me here.” He pauses to consider. “You can’t say it’s not impressive. I was all over the place out there! Lost for hours! The true determination of bored bureaucrats.”

I’m itching to face the councilman, but Snow is here beside me, stinking like a furnace and apt to blaze through the floorboards, if he doesn’t stop growling in my ear. He looks like what he is—a man cursed, and he _cannot_ be seen.

“Monsieur Truffe,” I say, willing the shake from my voice. “The master of the house is indisposed. May I help you with something?”

There’s a pause; no doubt the man is recalibrating, having recognised my voice. He’s an occasional visitor to the bookshop—no great reader, but he comes in at Hallowe’en to purchase the latest hysterical protections. (As all on the council do.)

“Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch,” he manages eventually. “I’m surprised you’re here.”

“I'm sure.”

Of all Lamb has told them, he didn’t mention I’d stayed. Perhaps he thought I really would trail along the path behind him. And when I didn’t turn up at his tavern, as commanded...was that the final straw?

I look at Simon. He’s staring holes through the door. (It’s shaking on its hinges; I hope the councilman likes fireworks.)

“Would you come outside? There’s a...gentleman who expressed concerns to the council yesterday. We wish to resolve the issue before it snowballs.”

I can’t help but snort. _Too late._ From the corner of my eye I see Shepard at the window, teasing apart ragged curtains. Bunce has deemed this a serious enough circumstance for him to reclaim his glasses—he cleans them on his sleeve, then peers out at our guests. One look over at me, and I know it’s not good.

_A trap, a snare._

_But not an ending. Not yet._

“I’m afraid I cannot join you, councilman.” _I really can’t. The house probably won't let me._ “Between you and your fellows, surely you can manage the issue by yourselves?”

I pretend I’m in the shop; this is merely a disagreement with an entitled customer. If I stand firm and sound like I mean it, they’ll back down.

Councilman Truffe walks away from the door, muttering unhappily to himself. Snow and I creep to the window.

“What do they want?”

“Snow, how would I know?”

“Is that prat with them? The one in the shitty blue suit?”

I sigh, crawling beneath the sill to reach Shepard. “What do you see? How many are there?”

“Twelve,” he answers. “Maybe more. The council’s there, and behind them are others—they’ve got torches. It looks like we’re in for your classic fairy tale standoff.” He purses his lips. “If you ask me, it’s a bit early in the day. All the best moral crusades happen at night.”

I raise a tired eyebrow. “Is now really the time to quibble over scheduling?”

“No, I guess not. Still...this many townspeople, out of bed this early...they’re bound to be in a bad mood. I’d _say_ we need a thunderstorm for that dramatic-and-climatic ambience, but it would only make things worse.”

And on Hallowe’en, of all days. The dizzy heights of the festival’s climax tonight, spinning them into a frenzy…

_Lamb. Why._

_Could you smell the smoke, too?_

Snow growls, eyes darting to his candle treading water in its teacup. His tongue isn’t forked this morning, but his fangs remain sharp. “So what, I get to choose between a curse and being roasted alive by idiots with pitchforks? That’s just bloody _fantastic._ Great start to the day.”

“It’s not ideal!” Shepard notes.

“Wish I had my antlers. They’d soon keep their fucking distance.”

**“Is your friend out there?”** Bunce interrupts. **“The one with appalling taste in formalwear?”**

Shepard checks, but shakes his head. “Still no sight of Lamb. Do you think they’ll do anything drastic without him?”

“No.” I reach behind me to squeeze Snow’s arm in a (possibly) comforting way. “You know he enjoys being in the thick of things; if those torches were to draw near, he’d be at the forefront, looking for the most flattering light to be cast in.”

Snow bristles beside me, and his restless magic seethes. (It smells like a barbecue, and brings out inappropriate levels of hunger within me.)

**“I can lecture them, if you like. Read to them** —s **tart with the** **_A_** **s and make it a night-long affair.”**

I tell Bunce to rest her definitions and pace the living room. Firelight catches my eye from the kitchen, and I realise there are more people in the garden, torches held aloft.

_“Basilton Pitch! Shepard d’Omaha! Surrender the creature and no trouble will occur. We_ _appreciate_ _what the bookshop does for the town. We all love our twenty-percent discount.”_

“Don’t bring our special autumn rates into this!” Shepard cries. “You’re down to fifteen percent, now. Barricade-day deductions. You’re shooting yourselves in the foot!”

“This is happening,” I whisper, as if it only now becomes real. “They mean to trap us here.”

_And at midnight, when the candle dies with Snow’s last hopes of becoming human?_

It’s funny, really, how Simon assured me I wasn’t his prisoner.

He was right.

From the beginning, we belonged to the town.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _les tournesols_ \- sunflowers  
>  _ta gentillesse_ \- your kindness  
>  _prisonnier-et-bête_ \- prisoner-and-beast  
>  _naturellement_ \- naturally  
>  _un gobelin vert_ \- a green goblin  
>  _la boulangerie_ \- bakery  
>  _le diablotin_ \- imp/gremlin


	10. a judgment of fire

We’re in the house, time passing as torches gather.

Snow informs me that it’s hopeless to resist. To delay our judgment at the hands of the horde.

“We’re not moving,” I say for what feels like the hundredth time, breaking off a splintered chair leg. “Let them try the doors; we’ve plenty of ammunition.”

Shepard lets the curtain drop and crawls to Bunce. “Penny, we’ll need to keep you safe, in case they do get inside. How strongly do you object to being stuffed up the chimney? You should put the magic mirror up there too, Baz—better dusty and dirty than broken.”

My hand tightens around the square of glass.

**“If one iota of soot graces my contents page, bookseller, I will personally see to it that you go out of business. I’ll have your land sold off to the lowest bidder and turned into an apple warehouse.”**

“There’s no need to hide anything,” Snow growls, still pressed against the wall. “Or anyone. No chimney stuffing.”

I eye him curiously, but he won’t return my gaze. He grips his sides, his chest bare and flecked with grey and green, abandoned hopes of a decent shirt on the floor between his feet.

“Snow,” I say. _“Une dernière chance._ How do we break your curse? If you walk out there as you were before, they’ll leave. Latour might be unwelcoming, but they don’t generally incinerate tourists.”

He looks down at the scabs and scars still covering his hands. The hair, the spikes, the fangs. “Hand me over,” he says finally. “That’s the only kindness I can do now. Let them take me and then you can leave. You said that you wanted me to get up and fight for myself, but...well, I’d rather do this for you.”

 **“So you’ll abandon me? Left here to live out my days as a past-it edition with these two dullards for company? Simon, please** —”

“We are absolutely _not_ handing you over,” I snap. He startles, stepping back as I approach with a chipped teacup in my hands. “That is not what I meant by fighting. Hold onto this. When these fools have left, we’ll need it. We _are_ going to fix this, Snow.” I lean closer to brush my lips against his. I think of how it last night, when everything was simpler. When I was pretending to sleep and we were both imagining there was nothing between us but air. _There is absolutely no science in this kiss. (Well, perhaps a touch of chemistry.)_ “I want to help you.”

“It doesn’t matter if I stay like this,” he whispers. “I’ve thought about it, and…it’s fine. Really. I’ll manage.”

“I know it’s fine,” I reply. And I hope he sees in my face that I mean it; _I accept you, all of you. Exactly as you are._ “But for _them_ it isn’t fine, and I won’t see you hurt. They’ve no kindness in mind.”

Then I step back and wait for it to sink in, my meaning made clear.

_(If there’s a cursed creature running around Latour, we make it go away.)_

“Looks like they’re sticking around,” Shepard says from the window. “They’ve brought a packed lunch—and it’s cheese sandwiches!”

“I’d _kill_ for a cheese sandwich,” Snow laments. (I think he means it; he’s salivating.)

“Go into the kitchen and distract yourself with the cupboards. Keep away from the back door. And don’t eat anything too crunchy—the last thing we need is them mistaking a box of crackers for bones.” He does as he’s bid, blanket cloaking his wings. “If they want a standoff they can have one, fairy tale endings be damned. We are _not_ leaving this house.”

Newly resolved, we take it in turns to watch the windows and scavenge from drawers, Snow curling himself into a furious ball besides the fireplace. Occasionally, he dips his finger into the wax of his doomed candle.

“What will it be like, when the spell’s permanent?” he asks Penny, after a torturous hour limps by. “Will it be different? Maybe my personality will change. I’ll get really into it, this whole villain thing. Find myself a gothic castle to live in. Offend a few faeries and passing sprites.”

 **“Simon Snow, you would be the world’s worst arch-villain. You’re far too lazy to achieve any substantial means of world domination. Do you remember what things felt like** **_before_ ** **the curse?”**

“Not really. I hardly remember who I was. It’s like I’ve always been this way…this hairy bastard _is_ me. My calling.”

I think about what he said on the rooftop. _This, me. It’s not the end of the world._

But it’s not what he’d choose, either.

He deserves a choice.

In the afternoon, several of the councillors retire as unknown townspeople take their place. Monsieur Truffe leaves with a sigh as the sky reddens; he makes one more attempt to coax us out, hinting vaguely at the possibility of a battering ram, then gives up. Unfortunately Latour isn’t lacking for outraged locals—there are never fewer than twenty people surrounding the house at any one time, by Shepard’s count. Lamb has them whipped into a thorough frenzy, and they aren’t backing down.

“Round four of sandwiches. _Par les dieux,_ these guys can eat! Baz, look—there’s a scroll. They’re reading from a scroll! That’s got to be important. Aren’t all of the town laws kept on scrolls?”

**“Sounds terribly pretentious, if you ask me. Every scroll I’ve ever met has had airs about it.”**

_“...the Official Anti-Monster Pro-Active Project Planning Council of Latour has deemed the occupant of...um, well...The Small Red House That’s In Rather Bad Shape to be in contravention of the town’s safety guidelines. Also, your garden hasn’t been pruned and as such, additional charges of Severe Horticultural Neglect will be brought. Please see the council-approved pamphlet on proper garden standards for details. As such, this property will be immediately seized, and any unseemly creatures found within will be kept under council supervision until further notice. Signed, the below…”_

The councillor with the scroll drones on and on, listing names and places and regulations unknown. When they finish reading from one curl of paper, another is produced; it’s as if they want to bore us into surrender. _Legislative murder._

Neither side of the standoff budges, and the hours remaining to us dwindle, fizzling out as the sun begins its fall. Shepard gives a running narrative on everything the gathering eats and does:

“ _Les sandwichs!_ Another fresh round of sandwiches! This crowd can really handle its crusts.”

“Baz, isn’t that Madame Choufleur from across the alley? Her pitchfork’s _massive.”_

“You come into my shop and buy _The Hunchback of Notre Dame_ for the bargain rate of half a franc _,_ then come here to bully my hairier-than-average friend? The hypocrisy!”

“They’re picking flowers from around the house. Roses! That’s a shame. Did you plant them, Simon? They’re just like the ones on your teacup.”

“No chanting yet. That’s a good sign. When the spontaneous angry chanting starts, it’s game over.”

“Hey, are those two council members having a sword fight with _baguettes?_ That’s sacrilege! _”_

_Sandwiches, declarations, torches lit and lowered._

And when, at long last, Corentin Lamb arrives, the sudden silence serves as his announcement.

_Perfect. As if this day could get any worse._

(Although it started off rather nicely.)

“Basilton!” comes a poisonous voice near the front door. “I know you’re in there. _Mon chéri_ , won’t you come outside? I only wish to talk. I suppose I could always come in...”

No answer. Snow is humming with power by the fireplace, staring at me sullenly. I want to say, _I stayed with_ you _last night, no one else._ But I don’t.

I take a step towards the door.

_Will the house let go this time?_

(Because this isn’t working.) (Because I don’t know what else will.)

“I should speak with him,” I say quickly. “Before he enters. He might listen to me.”

Penny flutters angrily. **“Basil,** **_no._ ** **You’re not wearing any eyeliner! You’re practically useless.”** She raises her voice at the window. **“He’s not talking to you and your detestable off-brand wine stains! Sod off!”**

A pause. I hear Lamb shuffling, struggling to adjust.

“Ah, _pardon, mademoiselle._ I wasn’t able to meet you yesterday! Penelope, isn’t it? I found your name in our ledgers. _Bunce, party of two, four nights over Hallowe’en, bill to be paid._ Perhaps I could have a moment of your time. Or I could have words with your friend—not the famous bookseller. Rather, the young man with horns sprouting from his forehead?”

“Ha!” Snow snorts, fangs extended over his lower lip. “Shit out of luck today, aren’t you? Not a single fucking horn to be seen.” He pouts. “And they were _antlers._ ”

I hiss at him to hush, for all the good it does.

 **“There’s a word for interfering busybodies like you,”** Bunce calls, pages flipping past at a frantic pace. **“Let me find it. It’s** —”

“I’m coming!” I call, before things can worsen further _._ “But the others will be left alone.”

Further silence, and then, _“Bien sûr_. They will be left alone.”

“Baz.” Simon wants to stop me, but I must do this. For him, for the others. (For the candle.) “Don’t.”

Too late. Before I can question myself I push him off and pull at the door handle— _i_ _s it time to let go?_ There’s resistance, and then it yields to me. _Yes, it’s time._ The house exhales. I open the door expecting a sea of torches and pitchforks in my face—instead it’s just Lamb, with what Snow would no doubt describe as a shit-eating grin on his face.

“Basil,” he says, voice low. He’s wearing a green suit today, dark and mossy. “I understand this time of year is stressful for you. Nobody’s blaming you for avoiding the festival—”

“I’m not avoiding anything. I am choosing not to participate.”

He keeps his face straight, giving nothing away. Behind me I’m aware of smoke, so strong I fear we’re on fire. My dream comes back to me, as it always does—a face in the dark, teeth and sharp edges.

_...were you the smoke, instead of Snow?_

**“Basil, there’s no time. Simon is** —” Penelope begins, though her voice is quickly muffled. I step outside, praying that Shepard has the strength to keep her vitriol contained. _Bury her beneath Hugo's novels. She’ll soon be lost in the narrative._

“Are you going to have me carted off to the asylum?” I ask viciously, admiring the spectacle—Latour’s finest, lined up for the hunt. _But who amongst you will be crowned Seigneur de la Chasse?_

So many faces I’ve known and shrunk away from, all my life. I see the doctor who deemed me mad; he’d recommended I be carted off for _examination_ , but my parents fought it. They fought so much, and then my mother died and my father faded, until I faced it alone. “It seems you _do_ believe in the monsters I see. The council’s convinced there’s one hidden in this abandoned house, but I tell you there isn’t—he’s no beast. Not at all. So who’s the mad one, me or you?”

The walls are humming. I can feel it, and the gathered throng can too—it slithers from the bricks along the path to where they stand, exchanging uneasy glances. Snow has worked himself into a snit, and each of us will pay.

“What happened to you as a boy was unfortunate, but there’s no need to make it your life’s purpose. I want to _help_ you,” Lamb says. “We both know your friend’s story was a lie—there are no performers staying here. The only act is the one you’ve given me. I could smell it on him immediately—smoke. _Un signe classique_.” He runs his tongue along his canines. (A classic sign of what? Magic?) “Return to Latour with me immediately, and we’ll let these fine citizens take care of our _guest.”_

_Our guest._

I hear his words as if from my own lips, hours earlier.

_I want to help you._

“Let me save you, Basil. From the beast.”

I shake my head. “He’s not…I’m not a prisoner! If anything, I’m breaking and entering. You should be saving _him._ ”

The earth moves. (In a quite literal sense. Snow is boiling over, and there’s no telling where his magic might fly.) (What sort of book will be made of me? One that lacks a satisfactory ending?)

 _“_ I’ve failed _,”_ I mutter, because it’s true. There’s no stopping this curse. “Last time the magic went off, it defied description. Bunce said so.”

“You’ve failed at what? What’s this nonsense about magic? Come with me—step away and let the council see to your little problem _._ Come and—”

He’s on me suddenly, hands furious, rifling through my pockets. I know what he’s after, what he finds in there—I fight him, thumbs and scratches, wincing back as he pinches me hard enough to draw blood.

 _“Casse-toi!”_ I shout, cradling my hand. “Get off me!”

“ _Du calme_ ,” he seethes, victorious. “I don’t wish to hurt you; I don’t wish to hurt any of you. It doesn’t benefit me.” There’s a mirror in his hands that doesn’t belong there. “I only wish to help.”

_Oh, this is no small problem._

_This is where it ends._

Lamb’s face pales even more than usual as he stares at his own pallid reflection, perplexed. “This... _but where is it?”_

It comes out in a single spitting breath, lips pulled back over his teeth. (Sharp like a wolf, or a serpent.) (Or a—)

“Give it to me,” I shout, following as he steps back, holding the mirror behind him. The crowd beyond are murmuring, questioning what they’ve been brought here to witness—they’ve come hunting monsters, and thus far have found nothing but the mad Pitch boy, alone in a rundown cottage.

Lamb tramples the wildflowers without care, shouting my name in a hundred wrong ways, waving the glass above his head. I snatch at it, my hand bloody from where he pinched me, slicing open a fingertip on the glass’s edge. He snarls and pushes me once, hard in the chest. I land on my back in a patch of dandelions, looking up at him. (Was he always this strong?) (He’s hiding his face.) The crowd of onlookers falls silent.

“Where is it?” he moans, mirror pressed against one eye, and then the next. “How have you bewitched it so? Where’s the _creature?”_ I try to kneel, but he holds me down with an immaculately polished shoe.

 _“Monsieur Lamb!”_ calls one of the councillors. _“What are you doing?”_

And for the briefest of moments, I could swear that his face changes—distorted into something otherworldly.

 _“Le monstre!”_ he shouts into the glass. _“Je veux voir le monstre!”_

_I want to see the monster._

It’s not exact, not quite the same wording.

But it’s enough.

Lamb is himself again, holding aloft an image of Simon’s face as he must appear in the house, staring out into the dying day with darkness behind him. _Where is he? Wind in his curls...the turret?_

“There it is!” Lamb cries, thrusting the glass in my face. “What a clever magic you’ve found, Basil. _Mes collègues_ , here is the proof you requested! I’ve seen how it lives, the chaos it breeds within these walls! And now, though there appears to be a disappointing lack of antlers, look upon it—the winged beast of Hallows’ Eve!”

I crawl, I beg, I swipe at his legs, but it’s too little and it’s far too late—Lamb strides along the line of already on-edge townspeople, enticing them closer with flashes of Simon, staring out in anger from an unseen place.

“Look upon it, everyone! The terrible beast that lives here, that has bewitched this poor boy! Doctor, don’t you see what illness plagues him still? Obsessed with monsters, and now he hides one from us! Keeps it here to prey on Latour’s trust! Our _patience.”_

He grins down at me as the crowd stirs. Roars echo, torches thrust into the air, and then they’re moving closer, one tramping boot at a time.

“We capture it!” he shouts, and they all shout in unison. “On Hallows’ Eve, we slay the beast!”

_“Oui! Oui! Tuez la bête!”_

“No,” I say, thinking of the others, watching from a window.

(“Chanting!” I hear Shepard cry. “Angry chanting! That’s a bad sign!” )

_“Bring the fire, trail it up the walls!”_

“No,” I say again, watching glass sway in the wrong man’s hand.

_“Torch the flowers so it can’t escape!”_

“No,” I say as I twist, clutching my chest where I was kicked, crawling towards the house. I’m aware of Lamb behind me laughing, taunting me with the mirror. Simon’s reflection, trapped in glass.

_“It’s up there on the roof!”_

I can’t look at him. I can’t see how disappointed he is.

We’re almost at the front door when Lamb tells me, with a voice like velvet rubbed the wrong way, “Every one of you is the same, in the end. I never tire of it.”

And then...

...well, it’s as I’d known it would be when I first dreamt of fire.

_Smoke. Close, now. It’s nearly time._

I look up and see red, blood splashed across the sky.

Lamb glances up and sees what I see: a curse raining down upon us. Two red wings, a tail, and the roar of a thunderous sky.

_Simon Snow._

He bursts from the tower window, wings and scales and spikes and so many teeth, dropping on us like the worst sort of demand, arms wrapping around a dumbfounded Lamb and lifting him easily. The innkeeper is tossed into the nearest clot of gathered townsfolk. Screams rise from throats, accusations flung alongside pitchforks.

_“A monster! A monster in the sky!”_

_“The stories were true. Can I get a refund from Quelgué for all those useless books?”_

_“Kill it! Bring it down! Keep our town safe!”_

“Snow!”

He’s lost to me, arms flailing and legs kicking in all directions. His newly-revived tail lashes out, disarming the nearest council members in one livid, vivid swipe. I run to him and he whips around in a snarl, _roaring_ at me to stay back.

 _“This is what I am!”_ he howls _._ “A deformity.” There’s a moment’s pause when I dare believe I haven’t lost him, but then he crumples. “And this is what they want—a story.”

And I want to say _no, they don’t care about the story._

_They only want an ending._

A man charges in with a torch, but he’s swept aside easily. Flames catch in flattened grass, and then there’s a wall of fire inching towards the house, searing the buttercups. I look back to see if Shepard and Bunce are there, watching with worry from the doorway—but the house is ablaze now, the ivy blistering, luminescent as Snow swings with abandon.

 _The candle_ , I despair, but there’s no saving that, either—he’s too far gone, a wick folding in on itself. I dodge the swinging fist of a council member and duck a rogue pitchfork. (Why is it always pitchforks? When did shovels go out of fashion?) I can’t see Lamb—Simon is throwing somebody else around now, wings poked through with holes.

Everywhere, everything is pain and fire.

**“Baz!”**

I hear her cry rip through the carnage, fire devouring the moss on the roof. Bunce is racing towards me with Shepard. (Well, I suppose _he_ does all the racing.) (He hops gracefully over a low-flying torch, impossibly cool in a crisis.)

“I can’t reach him,” I croak. Smoke closes in, choking and cloying, and I’m trapped in my dream again. We hear cries—some of the townspeople are retreating, beaten back by the tornado that is Simon Snow, in full flight.

 **“He’s going off,”** Bunce points out, in case we hadn’t noticed. **“This is like the night he called me a know-it-all, only a hundred times worse. Also, there wasn’t as much fire.”**

“Lamb’s in the house,” Shepard croaks. “I tried to follow, but the smoke was too thick.”

Now, what is he doing in there? He’ll burn along with it.

 **“We have to go** — **with those tattoos, when the spell hits you’ll be turned into a manuscript for a third-rate Shakespeare tribute act. A true tragedy.”**

“Really? Do you think the curse takes requests?”

I tell them to cut a path through the forest and find shelter in the bookshop. All of Latour will be awake, watching flames lick above the trees...will the entire skyline be scorched before long?

“Are you coming?” Shepard asks, batting a torch out of our faces. “Madame le Navet, you should know better! That’s the last time I give you a discount on periodicals!”

“I have to find him,” I choke. “Go, please. _Go!”_

They do, Bunce’s battle cry tearing forth as they race through the chaos. I don’t think anyone knows who’s swinging at who, anymore—it’s a forest of fists, bruises formed of malfeasance. I swerve, crawl, _fight_ my way towards the house, though every window is filled with fire—red bricks far beyond saviour.

“Snow,” I croak. _“Simon.”_

_“Kill it! Kill the monster!”_

_“Essential Anti-Monster Tactics, page forty-four! Remember your training!”_

All of this. This madness, a lifetime of hatred.

_They haven’t even asked him his name._

_He likes to gut baguettes before he eats them. He reads books of fairy tales and flowers. He’ll brave a weeks-old croissant._

_He’s a good person. A_ person.

_But they refuse to see._

“There, now—I’m here.”

It isn’t Simon’s hand that closes over my own, dragging me from the fray.

 _Overdressed for the occasion, but a flawless taste in cufflinks. This is_ —

“Now, Baz _._ Breathe deeply; the smoke’s not as thick here. It’s time we were going.”

_What are you talking about? The whole world is smoke._

I can hardly see through my own stinging tears. Lamb is in front of me, stinking of burnt wood and camphor. (Where’s the usual flood of cologne?) He’s holding something in his hand, the one that isn’t crushing mine—something delicate, and...

...I hear Simon’s screams over my shoulder, my own name a bloody curse in his mouth...

...pulled along scorched ground with a fork in my side, smoke burning my lungs...

...magic, making monsters of all it touches—the people, the bricks, the mortar. I see the turret topple, gargoyles sprouting leathery wings as they rain down from above...

...Lamb in the trees, dragging me away, his speech a torrent of insults, but then—

—there’s a flash of light so bright it’s blinding. A new taste hits the roof of my mouth, hot and sweet and cloying. And I know this is him, his magic.

Simon Snow, over the edge and far beyond reach.

It rips through me and I feel it in my bones, my teeth.

_Fangs. There are fangs everywhere._

I’m a child again, running from the dark. I look up into Lamb’s face and see he has them, too—fangs, sharp and explicit, though there’s no pain in his eyes...just a shine, and memory forcing its way through. The shape in the dark, what I once swore was true.

 _He was teeth, teeth everywhere_ — _and such was the smell of smoke._

“It was you,” I whisper, battling ash and repressed memory. My mouth is heavy, full and aching. _He’s mad, that one. Drove his family away with his stories. Keep your distance, mind your back._ “You...you’re the…”

 _“...la bête dans la nuit?”_ He grins, wide and white and terrible, and I know it is true. It was him, when I was younger, his teeth buried in a girl’s neck in the woods.

_I saw you._

_I saw what you were._

He’s a vampire. Latour's vampire.

And he walks towards me through dying flowers.

 _“Très bien,_ Basil. Finally, you see things as they are...and as they must remain.” He draws himself to his full height. (Not much, really. His presence is mainly in the cut of his clothes.) “I will be the _only_ monster in this town. It is my kingdom.”

It takes me too long to understand.

I wasn’t crazy. What I saw was true, inescapably real.

_Lamb is a vampire. The creature I saw as a boy._

_And he thinks Simon is here to...what? Usurp him? Prey upon the town in his place, as he must have done for years?_

I conjure forgotten faces, a hundred of them—marching from the anonymous swirl of the city into the Kathèrine with wide eyes, to begin their summer work.

And I can’t recall any who walked out.

_Portraits, faces...handlebar moustaches...was that him in every painting?_

_A long line of sons without families. Fathers who vanish, replaced by another with the same face._

_Decades turn to centuries. Nobody questions, nobody_ sees _what they’d rather ignore_. _One throat the same as the next._

He advances, unable to grasp how _wrong_ he is—Snow’s magic has erupted, flames shooting skywards in brilliant shades of blue, making monsters of the night. People are on the ground cradling their jaws, mouths of teeth and blood. Vampires—that’s what they are now, and there’s more. I see a woman on all fours, howling for the moon—a young man behind her, my own age, screeching like a...well, like a banshee. Others lurch, eyes as empty as their skulls, seeking succour. It’s as if Latour has died in the night and revives as its own Hallows’ Eve nightmare, writhing and moaning and repentant.

I feel it, too. The magic, aching to make more of me—fangs, forcing their way through my gums. I taste blood and smoke, wet on my chest.

Lamb looks around furiously, taking in the side-effects of his betrayal.

“The only monster?” I gasp. I dig my hands into his lapels and pull his face against mine. We’re much the same, him and I. “A kingdom of _what?_ There’s nothing to rule. You’re but one in a sea of horrors.”

There’s outrage in his eyes and, yes, dismay—but then there comes a smile, thin and wicked. A sliver of his usual composure.

“I’m nothing like them. I am much, much more.” He takes in my fangs, the new strength in my arms. “And you...you and I, Baz—we _are_ the same, now. At last. What does that say?”

_(The turnover at the Kathèrine is really something, don’t you think? Staff barely last the season.)_

I see what he’s holding, what was retrieved from the burning house.

Simon’s candle.

_(Lamb knows more about monsters than anyone. He could write the book on them, if someone hadn’t beaten him to it.)_

I watch as he tips the teacup upside down, hot wax dripping on the forest floor. He grins and I see all of him—fangs filling his mouth, the face I glimpsed as a boy, a torment of sleepless nights since. He looks nothing like himself, and yet he’s what he was. When the teacup is empty, he brings the final flicker of a flame to his lips.

“Don’t,” I say. It’s strange, trying to speak through knives. Blood drips from my mouth to the grass, and I’m slurring. _“S'il vous plaît. Arrêtez.”_

“If I blow out the candle, what happens to your charming boyfriend?”

I’m gasping, clawing for air and blood and something darker, something built of pain and hunger. He’s entirely made of smoke; a wisp of a man from the past.

“Simon...he…”

“He becomes human?” Lamb asks, eyes wild with pleasure. “Or he dies? _En vrai_ , I don’t mind which. But he cannot be as he is. Latour will say I’m a hero—when this is over, when I’m the only one left standing to tell the tale.” He brings the teacup to his mouth—

 _I’m sorry,_ I think, unable to stop it. I’m stronger, but not strong enough—Lamb’s had centuries to grow into himself. _You were kind. You were kind to me today._

—and blows.

Nothing should change—the cold, immovable flame, burning on undeterred.

But it could be that there’s too much magic in the air, or it could be that Lamb, too, has _always_ smelt of smoke, and I never noticed until today.

The flame dies. Porcelain wildflowers fall, cracked open on the forest floor.

_It’s over. It’s done._

And as he comes for me, fingers digging into my arms, I think about the kindness Snow has given. The small ones I would not have noticed, if I hadn’t been looking—wings as a blanket, holding me close. Offering a fork at the dinner table. Saying I could go, when I wanted to stay. Looking after Penny, making sure she was comfortable. Even hiding himself away was his own sad sort of kindness, protecting others. 

At the end, he wanted to give himself up as sacrifice. _For us, for me._

“You are no monster, Baz. You are blood and bone and heartbeat—so _alive_. It pains me to see you this way. I did what I could for you, over the years.” Lamb’s mouth is a maw like my own. “Come with me. Let me help you.”

“I saw you,” I croak, wiping at my lips. Everything is sore, swollen. “I _saw_ you.”

He’s becoming impatient, tutting at me. “I would never hurt a child, Baz, and that’s all you were.”

 _But you did hurt me,_ I think. _You’re hurting me now._

“They said I was mad,” I mutter. “I thought so, too. All my life, the looks they’d give...and you! You sat back and let it happen. You never helped me.”

Lamb frowns. “It was necessary to keep their eyes elsewhere, Basil. If the town were to investigate your _petites fantasies_ further, well…” He stretches the word out with his teeth, until it vibrates in the air between us. “Better to keep the word off their lips. _Vampire_ , bloodeater. Everything I’ve done has been necessary. Is the town not safe and well-kept? Every monster I’ve slain, each generation traversed...every antler mounted on my wall...”

My hand whips up and curls into a fist, smacking into the side of his face. This magic, _Snow’s_ magic, feels like sparks in the night, setting me alight. Lamb snaps at my fingers as I push him away; his eyes are voids, his mouth a blunt ending. And his face _is_ changing, I realise—the magic having a delayed effect.

_Scale, skin, spike._

_And are those...growing from his head…?_

“ _Safe?_ How many people have you eaten? The workers...tourists...that girl, I saw you...she would come into the _boulangerie_ _._ She was the age I am now. _”_

_Horns, spurs, antlers._

He shrugs. My mouth hurts. The thought of sweet blood, vivid enough to taste.

“It was fair hunting. Slow, weak.” He’s still trying to convince me, placate me. “I’ve only ever done things for the town’s best interests, Basil— _my_ town. It’s been mine for a very long time.”

I think of every book hoarded, every dark look and misunderstanding.

_Keep them in the dark. Keep them happy._

_Never, ever let them seek the truth._

“It was always you,” I mutter, understanding. “And we never had a choice. Then, now. _C’est toi la bête_.”

 _We match_ , I think, though it isn’t Lamb’s face I see before my own—it’s Simon’s.

_Look, Snow. See how cursed we both are._

I push—as hard as I can, with all I have left—and hurl myself against the nearest tree, transported back to that forest path when a creature caught me looking, my basket of picked wildflowers crushed underfoot. _(Thrift, daisy, buttercup, bluebell._ ) Will Snow have felt the candle’s death? Will he know where I am when teeth descend?

I draw a mouthful of smoke and dig my fingers into the bark, pushing off towards the battle; it rages on, a cacophony of voices spiralling up into the night. Those celebrating Hallows’ Eve will fear their ghosts have come to haunt them.

_Mine have. Mine never left._

A hand closes around my wrist, like that morning in the square— _Salut, mon chéri_ —but this time there are claws instead of fingernails, and I’m swinging a fist again, tearing at moss and red, his teeth like—

_“Let go of him!”_

Snow collapses upon us suddenly like an ill omen, his wings battering Lamb’s twisted form.

“Here to fight?” comes a growl. “I’m afraid your little spell has no effect on me.”

Simon pulls me away, wings flapping, warding me back as I struggle to intervene.

_Oh, but it’s had every effect on him._

“No,” I say, and I think, _not like this._ “Snow, don’t get near him. He’s changing. He—”

_He’s cursed, too._

But it’s too late. Simon steps over the shards of the teacup, and in the second he spends marvelling at spilt wax, grey, mangled hands are closing around his face.

“Baz, go. I know now—this fire’s for me, not you. All that smoke...this is what the witch wanted. Where the candle was taking me. I _want_ to do this. I _want_ to be this way.”

“Simon, _no_ —” I’m choking on air, on the fangs in my mouth, on the dark in my chest.

“Baz, please go. It’s alright, I don’t mind.”

_But I do._

“Look at what he _is,_ ” Lamb roars. “ _Look_ , Baz!”

I do. I do look.

And I know which is the beast and which the man.

“I know what I am,” Snow says to Lamb, “and I know what I’m not. If being this way means I can stop you from hurting him, from hurting _anyone_ , then I’ll take it. I’ll be all of what I am.”

He struggles, but he can’t tear free of the vampire's grip.

_“Simon!”_

“I’ve never tasted one like you,” Lamb snarls, his pupils dilated. Magic’s made a monster of him—he’s caught between what he was and what he is, teeth and horns and webbed wings, trying to push out of his back. “One of my own, almost.” He licks around his mouth, and I can’t look away. His voice is a rumble, a tremor. “My expectations are low.”

And then those fangs are sinking into Simon’s neck, instead of my own.

Everything slows.

I see a hazy blend of reds and oranges, and that infernal, impossible blue. Colours, forming and frittering away like plucked petals. Like my vision’s a garden, frantic hands pulling at weeds. 

Then all bursts into a brilliant mess of bright light, gone as soon as it’s begun. I fall, hitting my head on a tree root, and lie still. Blood in my mouth, fangs pricking my tongue.

 _Don’t hurt yourself_ , I said to him then.

 _I don’t want to be like this,_ he replied.

It happens when my eyes are closed, so I don’t see who falls first.

I will myself awake, eyelids heavy with smoke and scalding heat, hands reaching for one who isn’t there.

_The rooftop, the rain._

_Simon Snow, there was nothing wrong with you._

There’s a shard of porcelain beside me in the long grass.

Monochrome wildflowers, just out of reach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _une dernière chance_ \- one last chance  
>  _par les dieux_ \- by the gods  
>  _les sandwichs!_ \- the sandwiches!  
>  _un signe classique_ \- a classic sign  
>  _casse-toi!_ \- go away!/fuck off!  
>  _du calme_ \- relax/calm down  
>  _je veux voir le monstre_ \- I want to see the monster  
>  _mes collègues_ \- my colleagues  
>  _tuez la bête!_ \- kill the beast!  
>  _la bête dans la nuit_ \- the beast in the night  
>  _très bien_ \- very good  
>  _s'il vous plaît, arrêtez_ \- please, stop  
>  _en vrai_ \- in truth  
>  _petites fantasies_ \- little fantasies  
>  _c'est toi la bête_ \- you are the beast  
> 


	11. a consequence of ash

When the fire dies, what remains is ash.

I wake slowly, gathering fragments of myself and forcing them into something whole. My chest aches with smoke and the sudden labour of breathing, as if I’d never realised before what an effort it is to be alive.

_But it is. It is an effort. A wasted one, without you._

_Simon_.

My first thought, once one is able to crystallise—Snow, with punctures in his neck like two rosebuds, weeping red.

Next, my mouth—free of fangs, bloodied and sore.

_The spell. It’s gone._

I crawl, stinging myself in a patch of nettles, scraping my face on sticks and stones. I can’t see him...he’s not where I left him, a lifetime away in the bracken. There _is_ someone there, but it’s not who I want—I can see patent shoes scuffed like my own, pointing up in the air. I drag myself over to a figure in a moss-green suit, stained with splatters of black. The antlers are gone—no scales, no claws, no wings or patches of coarse hair. Just the usual tumble of auburn.

Lamb. Pride and joy of Latour, eyes closed against the aftermath.

I don’t know if he’s hurt. (Can vampires die?) My ears ring with echoes of the magic’s explosion, spots of blue dancing in my vision. I return to the nettles and let them sting my cheeks again.

_The house in the clearing. The red house. Where is it?_

The fire’s gone, smoke spiralling softly into an ink-dipped sky. The grass and trees nearest are scorched, but there are no flames creeping up walls. (Indeed, the walls are gone.) I step over dead flowers, trampled during the fracas. _Dandelion, stitchwort, violet._ It’s too soon for me to be on my feet—I crash to my knees and crawl again, crushing petals under palms, still-warm bricks replacing the forest beneath me.

_Simon._

_Shepard._

_Penelope._

_The magic._

Everything’s gone. Burnt like my dream last night. Burnt like my childhood. Burnt like the hopes I had to make it through this, whole and unharmed.

My fingers find their way into an empty pocket. I whisper everything I can think of, all the words I’ve ever known, but the mirror isn’t there.

There are others in the ruins—unfriendly faces I recognise from town, picking up the scattered remains of their madness, forks and brooms and dead torches dragged back to houses. _“Did I have too many teeth?”_ one asks. _“Perhaps we ate too much pumpkin for dinner.”_

_“Was I really a monster?”_

_“Wings...wings in the sky...? No, that can’t be.”_

_“I could go for a bit of brain. Toasted, you know. Is that normal?”_

_“There_ was _a beast, but...I don’t know. I feel like it was me.”_

They don’t remember. None of them and none of it; the magic has stripped their minds, leaving them perplexed and confounded, clutching tools and pearls without purpose. _We were the night. The sky was blood and I could’ve drowned in it._

Will Latour tell the story of this Hallows’ Eve? Will there be a book written and printed, to be stocked on Shepard’s shelves next year, _A Cautionary Tale as Old as Time Itself?_

It all looks so ordinary. Residuum after a blaze.

In the midst of the rubble, roughly where the living room used to be, there’s a young woman. I don’t recognise her, which perhaps isn’t odd in itself—I’d know a first edition Brontë anywhere, but _actual people?_ No thank you.

But...she doesn’t have a speck of dust or soot about her, and that _is_ strange. I limp towards her, testing my feet once more. (No, still not happening. Crawling it is.) (At least this isn’t my favourite shirt.)

Water. Cold, clean water has never been so lovely, so resolutely perfect in my mind.

Teeth. Sharp, silver-white knives meant for me, that found another.

Simon. Simon is missing, and the candle…

The wildflowers died in the night.

The woman standing where the sofa used to be sees me and shrieks. She runs towards me as if she’s never used her legs before, and goes barrelling into the remnants of the door frame, ricocheting off with a painful thud.

“Baz! Over here!”

Her voice isn’t as bold as before, but it’s familiar—and the way she steeples her fingers together, assessing me like a forlorn footnote...

“Bunce, is that _you?”_

“It most certainly _is_ me,” she announces, twirling for effect. She’s wearing a paper-thin blouse and a leathery skirt, and I imagine it’s about the best the magic could manage, given the source material. She stops to pull up her striped socks, wild waves of dark hair down her back like an ink splash. A pair of cracked spectacles balance on her nose; I know them well, having looked into those lenses countless times across a counter, these past years. “I’ve got two arms, two legs and _no_ invasive bookmarks. Isn’t that a surprise?”

I indulge in a minor coughing fit as she continues to stretch and inspect herself, rubbing at the brown skin of her arms, returned to her human form after what must have felt like a long time spent trapped between pages.

“That chatty friend of yours is where the patio used to be, scraping someone off the stones.”

_Chatty friend? Well, she’s certainly not referencing the paperbacks._

The relief that Shepard is alive is a sudden, wondrous thing. I flop down onto my back in the remains of disaster, looking up at a starry sky. I scrunch my eyes shut, ignoring the councillor who approaches me from one side, a masquerade of mumbling apology. I don’t want any part of Latour—not now, not until the next day is here, and this frightful time of year can _finally_ be referred to in the past tense. (Perhaps I’ll have a leg to stand on, next time I ask for the festival to be reigned in. _Owing to the fact that the council almost set the forest on fire, next year’s festivities are cancelled. Or at least postponed until we’ve secured a more proactive fire service.)_

“Baz! _Ça va?”_

I know that voice.

Shepard doesn’t sound too worse for wear. I squint up and see him standing next to Penny—he tries to retrieve his glasses, but she bats his hand away.

“Hey, fast reflexes!”

“Not really,” she sniffs. “You’re just easy to read.”

Shepard pushes something wet against my lips—a canteen of water. I drink until I choke, until he drags it away.

“Where did you get that? I told you to leave.”

“Found it in the trees,” he says, far too enthusiastically. “There are still a few sandwiches, if you’re hungry! Sooty around the edges. We got so far along the path, then _it_ happened—the explosion.” He goes to clap a hand on my shoulder, then thinks better of it. (He rubs it instead, in what he must believe is a soothing manner.) “Nice to have you back with us.”

_Is it? Is it nice?_

Spots of blue light cloud my vision. 

“Snow,” I croak at the weeds. “What happened?”

I remember fire, winged trimmings and the townspeople, transformed into monsters...and I remember the nothing that followed. I look around, but the few stragglers left appear human enough.

“Don’t worry,” Penny whispers, crouching next to me and picking bits of charcoal out of my hair. (I dread to think what state it’s in. When’s the last time I even _looked_ at a comb?) “The bad magic only lasted a few minutes. Simon went off and then...it went _out_. Like a snuffed candle.”

My stomach turns. It comes back to me, Lamb’s lips above the flame.

“He well and truly lost his temper, and the curse blew up,” the former dictionary explains, brushing settling flecks of ash from her skirt. “But it’s alright—it was only there for a moment, then it was over. The magic disappeared and took everything with it—the fire, the smoke, all those bloody fangs...oh, and a couple of pitchforks, too. We’re thinking the witch might be into gardening.”

I nudge Shepard and he lets me drink again.

“There was an explosion, and a whole lot of blue. Then it was done,” he says with a shrug. “Finished. I guess when she made the curse, the witch only poured so much into it. In the end, it was like an engine running on fumes. All those times Simon got worked up but not quite _there_ , it must have chipped away at the spell’s power.”

Penny nods along. “She may have been a high-ranking witch, but this was a third-rate casting. I’m not sure her heart was in it, you know? She was going through the motions.”

_“C'est fini,_ ” I mutter, numb and bone-tired. “Explosion. Third-rate...Snow, his candle...”

I lie in ashes, wondering if there’s enough water in me yet to cry.

_Lamb. If he hadn’t...if I’d only..._

I roll onto my side, feeling stones pinch into my skin. When I go to sweep them from under me, I see they aren’t stones at all, but teeth—incisors, plucked from a hundred mouths.

_Fangs, made and unmade by magic._

“Gruesome,” Penny remarks, wrinkling her nose. “Trust Simon to produce something this horrible.”

I’m rolling teeth and fallen petals between my fingertips when I hear it—his voice, loud and obnoxious, cutting above the faint crackle of embers. He’s making enough noise to wake the dead and kill them off again, immediately after. It takes a moment to decipher the words, but from the way Bunce’s eyes roll back into her head, I’d say it’s something needlessly dramatic.

_“Baz. Baz, where are you? I can’t remember your full name. Something long and posh and pointless. Baz!”_

He’s practically howling by the end of it. (If he carries on like this he’s going to rouse the horde again.) I pull myself up onto my elbows and scan the clearing for him, eyes seeking red in the fading light.

“No self-respect, that’s his problem,” Bunce says. She joins Shepard in the shell of the house, helping survivors to their feet. “Off home with you pests—honestly, fancy burning down such a nice little house.” She stands over me, wagging a finger. “He’s never had a shred of sense in all his life; it’s a miracle he’s lived this long. With manners like that, it’s no wonder he was cursed. I’d curse him again right now, if I could.”

My throat’s too sore to shout, so I haul myself up against the remainder of a wall and hope he looks this way. (This was possibly the archway, before the flames came. The broken umbrella stand is still there.) I haven’t caught sight of him yet, and those wings are hard to miss—it has me wondering if he hasn’t re-cursed himself invisible, or something else unhelpful. I slump into dead leaves and ash.

Fortunately, he sees me first—his voice calls from behind, soft and close, and I practically break my neck in my haste to turn.

“Baz, are you hurt?”

There you are.

_Only in ways you won’t see. Dreams that cannot touch me; ghosts I lay to rest._

_“Tout va bien,_ Snow. I’m fine.”

And when I let myself take him in, _all_ of him, I see that he is far, _far_ beyond fine. For a moment he’s unrecognisable—gone are the wings, the patches of blue, grey and red covering his skin, the blackened curls of hair. Instead he’s as he was—bronze, freckled, golden, his eyes so ordinary they strike me, for a moment, as the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

_See, it’s like I told you_ — _you’re no monster. Wings and horns and claws don’t make you wicked._

He watches me drink him in, _revel_ in him, and a smile creeps across his face. I see that his fangs are gone completely—discarded along with mine and the rest, bone sinking into dirt and scree. There are no antlers sprouting from his forehead, no tail or traces of magic.

He is changed. Himself, and yet different, despite everything. Despite the teacup crushed in the trees. He comes to me.

“Baz. You look like shit, mate.”

(Evidently his foul mouth came to no harm.)

“Despicable creature,” I mutter. And then, in wonder, “You broke the curse.” I feel heat whirling off him as he kneels at my side, folding his very ordinary fingers in with mine. “The candle...you took a _bite_ for me, you fought the darkness. Simon Snow, you _are_ kind.”

There’s red in his cheeks and tears in his eyes, and I love it more than I can say.

“Bit over the top, don’t you think? The witch could have been more specific. Left me instructions, or something...if I’d known I needed to think big like _that_ …”

A habitual smirk, playing on my lips. “What would you have done, razed the forest the first night you were here?”

He frowns, hooking his arms beneath my own and hauling me to my feet. (Again. Hopefully this time I’ll stay on them.) “Well, I wouldn’t have wasted time worrying about sandwich etiquette and shirt buttons. Might have made peace with the wing situation a bit sooner.”

I realise then that I cannot let another minute pass without knowing what his lips feel like. (His real lips. Without a forked tongue between them, and without fangs between mine.) It won’t be a kiss to kill a curse, but it might still be worth a try—I place my hands either side of his face and pull him to me, meeting him halfway, as I’ve longed to do for days.

We’re on the rooftop again; that’s how it feels. He tastes faintly of smoke, but that’s all it is now—the smoke that’s left after a fire, without magic. Without shimmer and candlelight.

_There’s no curse. There’s only us._

When it ends, I say, “Just so you’re aware, that was another experiment.”

He smiles against my lips. “And?”

“I’d say it was a moderate success.”

He leans his forehead against mine and asks, “Would you say it was a kindness?”

I shut him up with another kiss, which seems a useful tactic to bear in mind. My mouth’s a bruise, and he’s a swirl of scratches—he admits he’s going to miss his wings, but not the tail. I remind him that these things were only extras, additions to the whole; he’s still himself. All he was, all he will be.

We stand together, watching the final shamed faces scurry away from the battleground. To our right, emerging from the bracken, we see a man rubbing at his mouth and swearing at every tree that dares look his way. He’s a bedraggled mess, auburn hair matted and knotted around his ears, his suit a shade of what the price tag once read. (One sleeve is missing, the other hanging on by a thread.)

Lamb, decidedly less than he was in those frightening moments before.

_A vampire without fangs. No horns, no twist, no magic._

_A man. He’s just a man._

“I don’t think he’s feeling great,” Simon says. His voice isn’t rough, like mine. It’s as if the magic burst out of him and made him complete. “He was looking rough back there, for a bit.”

Lamb certainly is _not_ feeling good. He claws at his face, his lips, his flat, human teeth—then he sees us and stares in horror. For a moment I’m convinced he’s going to run at us. But he seems to accept some part of the new reality he’s facing, straightens his tattered jacket, and hobbles off along the path.

“You took the curse away,” I realise. “And it took everything. He’s not...”

He’s not the teeth in the dark.

_He might not be anything._

I look at Simon, how lovely he is. How I might miss his wings more than I’ll admit, in the coming days.

_We can have that now_ — _days, more to come. It’s no longer fantasy._

“I wonder if he meant it,” I murmur. “If Lamb really believed he was helping Latour, doing what he did. Chasing off monsters, keeping the magic...he said the town was his kingdom.”

Snow’s nose wrinkles as he leans into me. “It’s a bit impolite, if you ask me. He’s part of the council, right? Sounds like he should’ve at least _told_ them. Given a choice. Vote on it, you know: _do you want the local tavern to be run by a snotty, well-dressed vampire, yes or no?_ And maybe they say yes, and I mean, that’s _fine._ Because at least they chose.”

_Yes,_ I think. _To know, to choose._

I watch him wipe his nose, smearing soot across his cheeks, and I know.

I know what I’ll choose.

“Here,” he says, squeezing my hand. “Don’t worry about it. He couldn’t threaten a salad, state he’s in.” He points across disaster and smiles at me. “Come on, I’ve got something for you.”

We trip through the house’s detritus, kicking aside charred ornaments and frayed tassels from the footstool. Simon props me up against a misshapen lump that was once the chimney breast, and goes digging in piles of brick and burnt wood. The fireplace fared better than the rest of the house—I can still see seashells, etched into the ceramic tiles of the hearth.

Simon grins triumphantly and holds something up to my face—it’s grimy, cloaked in soot and ash, but unmistakable. _Une Anthologie des Fleurs Sauvages_ , by Jardin de Lavande.

_“Mon livre_ ,” I mutter, running a finger along the familiar list of contents. “How?”

He looks at me, rubbing his neck. “When Shepard threatened Penny, it gave me the idea. Thought it was worth a try. Probably the house wanted it to survive.”

I nod, shrug, stave off the prick of tears. _But we couldn’t save the house._

“Thank you,” I say, holding the book against my chest. _Another kindness._

All the flowers around us are dead, but this is no ending. Life will work its way through the soot.

The wild will grow back.

Simon holds out his hand and I take it, the two of us limping through the wreckage of the past few days. He points out where the staircase was, where the pantry stood, where the garden began. We step over smashed slate, all that remains of the tower we slept in.

“I thought it was over when the candle died,” I admit, holding his arm. He must have relieved one of the councillors of their blazer—his shoulders are covered. I know that when I take it off for him later, there’ll be red welts where his wings used to be. “I thought…”

“He didn’t bite me,” he says, showing me his neck. (No marks. No punctures.) “It was close, though; he had a good bloody go at it. Too much hair, maybe. I bloody _hate_ Hallowe’en, don’t you?” (Yes, yes I do.) “People take it way too fucking seriously around here. I suppose the thought was enough for the witch...I _wanted_ to take the bite for you. So the curse was happy with that. Which is good, because if you asked me to spend all eternity stuck as a snobby vampire, I’d—”

“You have made your point. If you need a torrent of adjectives, Bunce might still be obliging.”

Everything changes now. It would be difficult to predict how much—for one, surely the Kathèrine will require new management? It’s hard to imagine anyone will want to work there, after the innkeeper led the town on a merry chase to nowhere. Lamb will be the one avoided in town, swerved in the streets—how ever will his ego cope?

“He blew out the candle.”

We’ve come to a stop in the trees, where the teacup lies shattered. I bend down to retrieve a few shards, flowers all but faded away.

“I tried to, the first time I came across it,” I mutter. “But the flame wouldn’t budge. I passed my hand through it...it was cold, almost unreal. How could _he_ have an effect on it?”

Simon shrugs, turning a piece in his palm. “Maybe because he _was_ magic, in a way? He was a creature, too. He might not see it as a curse though...it seemed like he was enjoying himself a bit _too_ much, if you ask me.” His eyebrows furrow, fingers following the outline of a foxglove. “I don’t know why it didn’t kill me.”

I lick my lips, try to will a bit of life back into myself. “Perhaps that’s what the magic wanted—to see how you would react when the worst happened.”

He nods, thinking it over. “Yeah, maybe...I didn’t try to fight it. Not really. I just...didn’t want you to be hurt. Any of you. Any of _them._ ”

“There we are, then,” I manage with a burst of nervous laughter. “A true kindness. Only took you until the last imaginable moment.”

After several laps of the burnt-out house we rejoin the path, trailing after Shepard and Penny, resplendent in her human form. (They’re bickering ferociously about _Hamlet_.) (Shepard rolls up his sleeve to quote one of his tattoos as a secondary source.)

I look back once as we go, and I’m glad I do, because if I didn’t I would miss it—a patch of foxgloves, springing up from the ash. The fire must have missed them, as impossible as it seems...but how else could it be?

“Where to?” Shepard calls, knocking his elbow companionably against Penny. (She damn near shunts him off the path in return.) “The bookshop, for wine? Or ale, maybe. I can’t remember...in fantasy novels, after the big battle, how do they celebrate? Or console each other. I guess it depends on which series you’re reading.”

“Mead,” Penny replies, pleased to have someone to correct. “We’ll need mead, honey and bread. Lots of butter.”

“Fuck loads,” Simon growls.

I watch the flowers until we turn the corner and they pass from sight, the red brick house no more than a hole in the ground. I think about wildflowers etched on the side of a delicate teacup, the feel of a cold flame against skin.

Simon’s fingers squeeze mine, and there’s nothing cold about that, about him.

Up ahead the others stop, staring down at something pressed into the dirt—I bend down and retrieve a square of cracked glass.

_“Le miroir,_ ” I murmur, passing it to Simon. “Lamb took it from me.”

He holds it out in front of us, and we each take turns inspecting our battle-worn faces. Shepard and Penny then turn to carry on along the path to salvation and rest, but I don’t follow. Not yet.

I fold my fingers over Simon’s where they cradle the glass and say, _“Je veux voir la bête.”_

We wait. For the mirror to mist, for the magic to show us what truth remains.

The mirror stays as it is, no swirling from one face to the next.

I watch us reflected in our hands, and though we wait, nothing changes.

I only see us.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _ça va?_ \- how are you?  
>  _c'est fini_ \- it's over  
>  _tout va bien_ \- it's alright/okay  
>  _mon livre_ \- my book  
>  _le miroir_ \- the mirror


	12. a book of wildflowers

The days pass, as they must—as they always do, despite how we fight them.

If we were hoping to see earth-shattering adjustments made to life in Latour, we were to be disappointed. The town is much the same as it was, the same as I imagine it will be from today until the end of time—quaint and charming, its many café terraces open to the river, pastries and tea and coffee and smiles exchanged, from dawn until dusk.

It’s been weeks since the burning of the house in the forest—a month and a day, to be exact.

I suppose there _have_ been a few small adjustments made between then and now. At the town’s only bookshop, Quelgué Books, there are fewer requests for anti-monster protection guides than in previous years. (After the incident at the red brick house, recorded in the dailies as _The Fire That Wasn’t Quite Real_ , the council decided it would be appropriate to scale back on the annual Hallows’ Eve activities.) (There will still be a festival next year, but no hunt around town. No burning of effigies, no demon dartboard.) The lead bookseller currently conducts a roaring trade in horror novels and leather-bound classics—Polidori’s _The Vampyre_ is, for unknown reasons, a particular favourite.

“Remember, it’s fictional!” Shepard says, each time a copy is brought to the counter. “Not _instructional_. _”_

Other than these minor alterations, autumn passed easily. The townspeople spent a week in a spiral of confusion and malaise, taking down the Hallowe’en decorations as if drunk, and then immediately began planning for the Winter festival. (Snow. It’s the first of December and there’ll be snow _everywhere_ , both in my room and out.)

Some things haven’t changed, however much they try.

Penelope Bunce, for one, is still haunting the streets of Latour, despite loudly announcing each morning that today’s _definitely_ the day she’s leaving this hellhole for good.

She decided, after just three days of her returned humanity, that she was bored beyond reconciliation and required work. Shepard hired her on a part-time basis to work in the bookshop’s printing room; she has an almost encyclopaedic knowledge of the binding process, and designs beautiful illustrated initials to include in the shop’s new editions. (She’ll also make a fierce bookseller; Shepard’s got an eye to keep her on full-time. I would buy a prison sentence from her, merely to make her stop shouting at me.) (Her ultimate goal is to join the editorial team of the local newspaper, conduct a mutiny against its lead editor, and begin her reign of terror as Chief Dictionary In Charge.)

“Take a coat if you’re going out today, Basil,” she says as we come down the steps from my room, Simon composed entirely of yawns and stretches at this early hour. “The season’s turning, and it’s less than warm.”

I thank her for her concern and lift down a jumper from the hooks by the shop door. _That will do_. I’d ask Simon if he wants an extra layer, but he always runs hot—I pull my hair off my neck and wind it into a bun (my reunion with a comb was a wondrous thing), slipping a scarf over my neck and following him outside. As we go, I promise Shepard that we’ll return with bread and fresh juice from the bakery once we’re done with our walk.

“Maybe you could stop by the stationery workshop, too—we’re almost out of ink.”

“ _Pas de problème._ Any particular colour?”

He smiles at me. A customer walks in, enquiring about spare copies of _Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus_. “Sure thing, _monsieur_ —and Baz, why don’t you get a bit of everything? I’m feeling bright today.”

I raise a hand and close the door behind me.

We step out into sunshine, sparse streets and a biting breeze.

“Do you want to go through the square or the side streets?”

He always asks, hanging on the edge of my answer. We like to go a different way each time. This way he gets to see the town as I see it; how the cobblestone streets wind and bend to take you places. I’m working on the map in his mind, every inch of it my own.

“Let’s take the square. We can buy you a pain aux raisins from Mademoiselle le Lutin—that way you won’t eat your way through my patience before we’re halfway there.”

He beams at me—it’s the answer he wanted to hear. We nod at people who nod at us, and raise a hand to Madame Possibelf, selling red apples at her stall.

“A nice morning, _messieurs_ ,” she calls.

“A nice morning,” we agree.

As we cross the square, I can’t help but glance at the shuttered building on our left—and this is, perhaps, the other change in Latour that begs to be mentioned. The Kathèrine Inn and Tavern is locked and boarded up, awaiting new ownership. We don’t know yet if there’s an interested buyer, or if it’s going to be closed for some time—Shepard says he saw a young woman with long blonde hair last week, peering in through the darkened windows, expressing interest in opening an apothecary.

Whatever its fate, the Kathèrine as it was is gone for good. The other drinking establishments in town are _not_ upset by their increase in custom, and the lesser hotels and inns are also enjoying renewed attention.

Nobody’s sure when Corentin Lamb left. Was it in daylight, or beneath the cover of night? Would that matter to him now?

One of his bartenders was in the streets the morning after Hallows’ Eve, asking if anyone had seen their overlord—it’s thought he didn’t even leave a note. ( _Braden_. That’s the fellow’s name. He’s since found work as a rat-catcher's apprentice.) When the tavern was unlocked, shattered bottles of spirits were found behind the bar, broken stools and smashed tables smouldering by a damp fireplace. There were said to be shreds of paper there, curled in the ashes. Diary entries, Brandon said—he recognised the handwriting on one of the shrivelled fragments. He said that Lamb kept a journal—he would write in it every day at the bar, lists of names and places and dates.

What he may once have recorded of his life is now lost. Reduced to cinders, forgotten before long.

The maps of America he’d ordered were missing.

Shepard was the recipient of the one sure sign that he had left Latour. (Permanently, we hope.) A large, antique key on a chain was left on the counter at Quelgué Books. We don’t know how it got there, but then, he'd been invited in so many times before. It didn’t take long for us to guess what this key opened.

The library. Lamb’s library, which indeed turned out to be the labyrinth long suspected—winding passages and rooms stacked with mouldy, mildewed books and scrolls. Shepard spent a full week down there, taking inventory of titles and authors. (Bunce proved a worthy assistant in that endeavour, too. She knows a thing or two about classification systems.) He’s planning to convert the reading room at the back of the shop into our own library and archive, rotating through the decades’ worth of magickal texts that have been hoarded and hidden from sight for so long.

“What do you think Lamb will do with himself?” Simon asks, as we drag our eyes away from the padlocked door. “Find a new kingdom?”

_“Je ne sais pas.”_

I’ve no idea. What _does_ a vampire do once forced into redundancy? Did the curse scramble him completely, or does he remember everything that happened? All that was taken.

“He’s got to do something for a living. He _is_ living, isn’t he?”

“I suppose so. Perhaps he’ll move into dentistry,” I say dryly. _He’ll certainly be in the market for a new set of teeth._ “Or perhaps the curse found a new object of interest. He might be in need of a kindness, these days.”

“Watch out for witches,” Simon remarks dryly. “I know I will.”

We talk about it sometimes. The dreams I had, the blood I saw. We don’t know if he’s still partly what he was, or if he’ll be able to change himself back. If he’s trapped as a human, just as Simon was trapped as a beast.

“Maybe he’ll bump into her on the road,” he says. He flattens the bronze curls that tumble over his eyes; he’s always touching his head, as if expecting to find antlers there. “The witch. Someone who’ll make a mess of his manners.”

It’s not impossible. I don’t think anything is, anymore.

We pass a market stall selling fireworks and candles, the day’s first inkling that the Winter festival is fast approaching. I pass a franc to the man, and he hands me two sparklers—I push them into my satchel before Snow can see and insist he lights his immediately.

He’s ahead of me, haggling with a woman selling glossy, sweet-smelling pastries. “Ah, _mademoiselle, je voudrais une pain de raisins, s’il vous plaît?”_

His French isn’t perfect, but it’s coming along. Trixie gives him two pastries, because his attempt is worth the extra sweetness. He offers me one, but I dare not come between him and breakfast.

“Will your parents arrive tomorrow?”

We leave the busy thoroughfare, and he takes my hand as we start along the narrow alleyways leading to the outskirts of town. He’s nervous about meeting my family, squalling siblings and my father’s tired eyes—I tell him there’s no need. They’re visiting this weekend, and will be staying in one of the inns by the river. (It’s not quite the seaside, but they should still be comfortable.) In my letter I told them of the changes in Latour, though I left out the legend of the beast in the woods. They wouldn’t believe me. _“You’ve been in this town for too long,”_ Malcolm would say. _“You need to get out and see the world—see that there are bigger things out there than your forest. Then you can find a nice bit of farmland and settle down.”_

He’s right, and we’ll get to that, Snow and I—travel, roads, sights, discovery, settling.

But first, there’s something here for us to tend to.

“They’ll arrive the day after tomorrow. My aunt’s coming too, and we’re to have dinner with them...thank goodness there’s no room for them all in the bookshop. My sister would _not_ leave you alone.”

Simon is devouring his second pastry, crumbs and glaze smeared across his lips. (He has taken to the local _boulangeries_ and _patisseries_ like a duck to water, and there’s no turning back. No more stale bread for this man.)

“Why’s that?”

“She’s fascinated by fairy tales; Shepard sends her hand-drawn picture books every year. He might model the next one on you.”

Snow snarls, though the growls aren’t what they used to be—he tries to elbow me into the nearest wall. I fight back, and we scuffle our way to the next bend in the road, to where a row of quiet houses wait, with empty gardens and low fences.

“Which one?”

“That one.”

“Are you sure?”

“Always.”

I pull my bag up onto my shoulder. It’s heavy, as usual—books, fireworks, pens, paper, promises. We’ve walked this way many times since that night, and we’ve long since trodden a path through the grass—the homeowner resisted at first, but seems to have given up. (There are two caramels wrapped in waxed paper, waiting for us by the gate.)

“After you, _mon amour.”_

I help Snow over the fence, then pull myself up after him. It’s a ritual of ours to come out here—you’d think by now we’d have found a better way, but the turning in the woods doesn’t always want to be found. There are old walls running around the edges of Latour, a remnant of its fortress days, though the stone has long since been reclaimed by the wild. A path follows its circumference, and I spent an entire day walking it back and forth near the rundown bungalows, searching for the wildflower turning. I found nothing. If we hop the fence, like I did that first time without knowing what I would find, we usually get there. (Especially if we’re together.)

Sometimes I think the forest is welcoming him home.

Today, the trees are pleased to see us—we find the turning without delay, and follow the path to a hollowed-out clearing. No feet but ours come out this far—it’s as if the magic took all knowledge of this place, when it scrubbed clean the townspeople’s memories. My eyes sting as I look at it, the spot where the house once stood. Where I spent those days and nights in anguish, smelling smoke and flinching at firelight.

That’s another small change. Simon doesn’t smell like smoke anymore. (More often than not he smells of bacon and butter, which is a testament to his one remaining monstrous aspect—his appetite.)

Weeds have begun their determined crawl across the ruins, but it’s still clear where there were once walls, windows, moss and stone. Where we once stood, looking out on lit torches. Where we sat on the rooftop with rain on our faces, kisses passed between parted lips. Where he stood in the archway, not wanting me to go.

“I was thinking about the house yesterday.” Simon passes a hand across a toppled pillar of red stone. “Do you think the owner will ever come back? I know it was abandoned, but it must have belonged to _someone._ When Penny and I found it, it was full of stuff. Furniture, stained glass, teapot in the cupboard...”

I wait. I can tell when there’s more he means to say; with Simon, you learn to be patient.

“...sometimes I wonder if it was the witch’s house. It’d explain why she was so pissed off at me.”

I hum my agreement, sidestepping a pile of old brick. “Possibly. But it doesn’t explain why she allowed you to rip it apart with your clumsy feet.”

“And wings,” he adds.

“Yes,” I agree, “and your wings.” _I remember them fondly._

“I hope they don’t come back, whoever it is. They’d be pretty upset to see it like this.”

“If they do appear, we’ll ask Shepard to think up a wild story. Really let his imagination soar—use his bestseller-quality lies.”

I slip an arm around his waist and pull him close—his name badge prods me in the chest. _Simon Snow, Novice Bookseller._ (There’s a progress chart hanging on the wall behind the counter. Shepard ticks things off occasionally and Simon, lured by the promise of an _Amateur Bookseller_ badge, almost always rolls out of bed on time for work.)

We walk around the house’s walls and innards, saying nothing. We go in opposite directions and meet at the back, where the patio was. (That delightful meal will forever be a cherished memory. I may not ever fully recover from the sight of my boyfriend, choking on a ham sandwich.) (He _is_ my boyfriend now; we made it official in the days after the magic left.) (The results of this particular experiment are, thus far, _exceptionally_ conclusive.)

I take his hand in mine and stroke along his fingers.

“Shall we?”

“Alright,” he replies. “Have you got the book?”

We walk to a patch of dirt by the trees. I felt ill, the first time we returned here; this was where I hit my head and lay, believing he was gone. This was where the teacup shattered, and magic spilled over into madness. People I’d grown up with, transformed into claws and snapping jaws…

It’s flowers now. Wildflowers. They’re growing back splendidly, despite their dire circumstance. (And despite the cold weather.) I pull out my charred copy of _Une Anthologie des Fleurs Sauvages_ , and flip to the pages I marked whilst we were lying in bed this morning.

“Why do you think they like it here?” he asks, kneeling down to stroke a hand against soft petals. “Nothing else does. If anything, the trees are trying to run away.”

“Don’t tell Shepard that,” I say dryly. “He’ll be out here with a ruler to measure their progress.” I tick them off in my mind: _Thrift, daisy, buttercup, bluebell, foxglove._ There are others, now—new ones seem to appear each time we visit. _Daffodil, honeysuckle, forget-me-not, rose_. There’s no pattern, no reason to their arrival— _unseasonably beautiful_ , as I’ve come to think.

“The roses look dead nice.”

They do. Deep red and lovely.

These flowers might not be truly wild anymore, given the strictest definition of the term. (It’s _so_ nice not to have Bunce in my ear to provide it.) (I still hear her voice more often than I’d like.) On past visits, we’ve brought mulch and fertiliser from town to tend to them, and Simon keeps a watering can hidden in the old fireplace. They’re kept plants, these days. Less than wild, like we are.

We don’t do much when we’re here. We look at the flowers, hunt the names of new ones in the book. It’s nice to know they’re alive—that something is growing through the wreckage. Thriving in the midst of decay. We watch the wildflowers move against the breeze, and later we’ll return to Latour in dappled sunlight, happy with another morning spent _sans_ monsters or misery or meddling curses.

I lean across the space between us and place a soft kiss right there, where his fang once cut into his lip. He kisses me back, breath coming slow and then quicker as it deepens; as always, ending as sweetly as it begins.

“Baz, there are new ones—there, behind the sunflowers.”

He’s right. I lean closer, leafing through the book. _Come on, de Lavande. Don’t let me down now._ “What do you say—are they snowdrops?”

He swats at me, expert in my digs and sarcasm. “Give me that,” he mutters, pulling the book into his lap. I always bring it with us on our walks; it’s become an interest of his, learning what we’re looking at. He scours the pages for colours that curve, white and orange with yellow in the middle. I watch the crease of his forehead, stung red by the sun beneath a thatch of curls. He’s trying his best to concentrate, and I can’t help but antagonise.

“Are you doing alright, Snow? Are there not enough pictures? I can always ask Bunce to pencil in a few more illustrations.”

He pulls a face at me and turns the book so I can enjoy his moral victory. (It’s the little things that count. Best to let him enjoy it.) “There, look— _la marguerite des bougies._ Have you ever seen these before?”

“No,” I reply honestly, shaking my head. The book says they’re a rare sight—found deep in forests, rarely touched and never picked. Their stems are thorny. “Candle daisies,” I whisper, leaning in close. They smell faintly smoky. “Well Simon, congratulations—you’ve cultivated an exotic garden.”

He laughs, closing the book and throwing it at my knees. “It wasn’t my doing. If you ask me, it was mostly the magic.”

We stand and look at the daisies, thinking about curses and manners and fire in the night. He says he hopes the new flowers will survive, and I’m sure they will.

I don’t know how long we stay. I know we’ll come back. We’ve talked about moving to the next town, or the one beyond that; somewhere new where we needn’t flinch each time we see a pitchfork innocently propped against a wall.

Snow likes it here, though he won’t say as much. The wildflowers want to keep him close.

It could be that _he’s_ wild, now even more than before. The flowers call to their own.

“Here,” I say, digging into my satchel again. “This is for you—but only if you promise not to set the forest on fire again.”

His eyes brighten. “What is it? And I won’t, or—I’ll try not to.”

And I suppose that will have to do.

I push past the usual ephemera I keep with me, fingers sliding over a curve of wood recently shaped by one of the tradesmen in town. There’s a lid with a hinge, and when you lift it, there’s a square of glass inside, the faint trace of a crack just visible where it was glued back together. The mirror hasn’t been magic since the day of the fire, though Snow and I both take it in turns whispering ridiculous things to it, when we’ve stayed up far too late and had one too many sips of wine.

_“Show me the flowers, show me the sea.”_

_“Show me the bakery, show me the beast.”_

_“Show me the ending, show me the start.”_

_“Show me the fastest way to Snow’s heart.”_

(It’s a needless ask, that last one. The answer is always bread.)

I find what I’m seeking and pull them out with a flourish—two sparklers, a surprise that delights on his face. As he holds the sticks I turn out of habit, though this time I’m sure that no one has crept through the trees in pursuit of us. Only the flowers see as Simon brings the sparklers to his lips, and whispers a line made magic— ** _“I fear neither sword nor fire.”_ **

For a moment, his face is taken in a swirl of red and blue—his skin cracks and spikes, lips parted by fangs. Antlers twist from his head, red like the wings on his back. I see a tail, snaking down from his waist.

_There you are. There’s the rest of you, the wild._

There’s a pause before the sparklers crackle into life. He passes one to me and we spin and dance, laughing with the stars above our heads and between our hands, writing our own names and each other’s in the air above the wildflowers. In the place where we came together, then apart, then together once again.

(You. I don’t dream of smoke and blood anymore, but I do dream of dancing.)

(And I’ll always dance with you.)

The sparklers die and I place his hand on my waist, whilst mine finds his shoulder; I’m teaching him to waltz, and he leads me through the recent past to now.

It takes minutes, sometimes, before the magic fades completely. The wings and spikes and horns fritter away, until he’s once again his ordinary (and desperately lovely) self. I feel a twinge in my mouth, as if fangs might break through—and then it’s gone.

It was an accident, our discovery of Snow’s small magic.

He was engaged in a minor debate with Shepard about a scene in _Henry VI_ , which Snow surprised us all by quoting from at length, one night and three glasses of wine deep. (It turns out there was a book of Shakespeare in the red brick house house that he’d read during his sulks. Bunce had no idea.) He spoke words of swords and glory, and there it was, shining between us—a fairy tale blade, golden and gone within moments.

He can’t _always_ make magic. If he puts enough feeling into it, it works more often than not—tiny spells, useful castings spread about the bookshop. It doesn’t have to be a direct quote from anything in particular, but lines from stories, poems and plays are more effective—anything that’s in the common parlance. (A fortnight after the fire, one of those dire English penny dreadfuls— _Varney the Vampire_ —was especially dangerous. I had to ban him from sneaking off with the shop’s copies to practice.)

We don’t know where it comes from. Is this magic left over from the witch’s curse, or was it his own doing? A remnant of his act of kindness, reacting with the candle’s burst of cold blue fire. He knows better than to do it in public, but out here where no one can see us?

 _Well, Simon_. _Let the fire burn._

(We’ve been conducting further magickal experiments in my room. _C'est_ _pour la science_.) ( _With love’s light wings did I o'erperch these walls; for stony limits cannot hold love out_ —Romeo and Juliet. If he says it in just the right way, the wings and tail come back for a full hour.) (They are _not_ a hindrance.)

The forest rests and we carry on spinning. We waltz across new grass, twirling and tripping and laughing until our eyes are wet. When we’re tired and the wind begins I’ll hold out a hand to him, and he’ll take it. We’ll return to the world slowly, and I expect there’ll be a story there waiting for us. Another day, another sequence of events to be players in.

This story is one I hope will end well, with the sky and stars above us.

“Baz, have you seen the snapdragons?”

“No,” I say, smiling. “Show me.”

He kisses my fingertips, and there’s a story there, too. One of late nights that don’t end until we say so; tangled limbs and wine glasses, lips smudged pink with laughter. Snow shows me the wildflowers, and as I bend my head next to his, I feel it leave me. A weight, the worry that has hung over me like a headline ever since I was young.

He’s talking about colours, about sunlight and leaves. I’m half listening, half watching. The book’s open again in his hands, and I admire the way his wrist moves as he thumbs at the page.

 _Turn it,_ I think. _Turn the page, Simon_ —and he does.

At last, I let go.

I turn the next page for him and see it there, clear as day in stark capitals.

 _Prologue_ , the book says. _It’s time to begin._

And we do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _pas de problème_ \- no problem  
>  _je ne sais pas_ \- I don't know  
>  _je voudrais..._ \- I would like...  
>  _la patisserie_ \- cake and pastry shop/bakery  
>  _la marguerite des bougies_ \- candle daisy (not real) (I wish they were)
> 
>  _“I fear neither sword nor fire.”_ \- Shakespeare, _Henry VI, Part 2_ , 1590-1592. (Act 4, Scene 2.)  
>  _“With love’s light wings did I o'erperch these walls;  
>  for stony limits cannot hold love out,”_ \- Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet, 1591-1595. (Act 2, Scene 2.)
> 
>  _The Vampyre_ \- a novel by John William Polidori, 1819.  
>  _Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus_ \- a novel by Mary Shelley, 1818.  
>  _Varney the Vampire; or, The Feast of Blood_ \- a penny dreadful by James Malcolm Rymer & Thomas Peckett Prest, 1845-1847.


End file.
